


No Game For Heroes

by SpaceVikingLoki



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alien Worlds, Angst, Dubious Morality, Explicit Sexual Content, Humor, Hunger Games crossover, Hurt/Comfort, Marvel Universe, Multi, Romance, Slash, The Nine Realms - interpretation, long-fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:59:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1234129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceVikingLoki/pseuds/SpaceVikingLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Capitol arrives, looming and hungry over the Nine Realms, each world receives an invitation they cannot refuse: a chance to participate in the 2,529th Annual Hunger Games. With no other option, Tony, Natasha, Loki and Sif must act as tributes on behalf of their worlds – the survival of which rides on their victory. To succeed, they must endure the pretentious fanfare of the Capitol, the horrors of the arena, and finally, their rival tributes. Caught between the need for trust and self-preservation, Tony and Loki must work together to balance unfavourable odds, even as they discover - their bond will become the greatest challenge of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place after Thor the Dark World and Iron Man 3. There will be heavy reference and use of the Nine Realms, some of which I have drawn inspiration from Norse mythology, though much of it will be my own interpretation. Some characters that appear will also be heavily influenced, but not entirely canon (to myth or comic). The Capitol and Games are also AU, with no canon characters.
> 
> Special chocolatey fudge coated thanks to banzaiifoo, isahbellah and bethbobby for being awesome betas.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at http://www.tumblr.com/blog/spacevikingloki
> 
> Enjoy!

It was only moments ago that Tony had been basking in the Miami heat, half listening to Pepper’s update on the company’s next public relations schema over the car line, half deciding what he wanted for lunch, when _It_ appeared. _It_ , which happened to be a massive, black, brooding planet popping up in the sky out of nowhere. _It,_ which was providing the earth with its most impressive solar eclipse to date. And _It_ , which was presently giving Tony Stark a panic attack.

First with the wormhole flying past his vision, followed by an accelerated heart rate, a familiar numbing of the hands with the hyperventilation, and finally he’s out of the car and stumbling to the pavement, head clutched to the knees to ride out the shaking.

_Well then, aliens? Great – nothing says heroic impulse like the fetal position._

And okay, yes, he thought he’d conquered this little nervous response too.

But then, who could really say they were completely over alien invasion number one? If New York had taught him one thing, it was that huge and foreign entrances in the sky weren't exactly heralding a cup of borrowed sugar, so yeah, a little freak out time should be warranted.

“Tony? Tony are you still there?” Pepper's voice jolted him back as he attempted to sit up right.

“Oh hey... Pep?” Tony managed to crawl up the side of the car door. “I know you're in the office right now but, could you... do me a little favour and peek out the window?”

“Tony, what are you –oh god... oh god, _Tony!_ ”

Well, that rules out an LSD remission.

The transmission was suddenly cut then as another, deeper voice took over the line with three curt words. It was honestly the firmest confirmation Tony could ask for.

“Avengers, assemble – _NOW_.”

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~o~~~~~o~~~~~o~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

A deep frown fell over the god’s face as he gazed skyward, the dark planet hanging like a nebulous orb overhead. Thor's father stood rigid by his side, gripping Gungnir with little heed to his hand’s circulation.

At first the sudden blotting of light had left a great hush over the people of Asgard, hands frozen over their masonry and needlework. Before long, isolated cries erupted into a sea of panic and chaos, spreading like wild-fire throughout the kingdom. Thor watched citizens scrambling through the streets, fleeting to their homes while the royal guard swarmed to their stations, awaiting decisive orders from their King.

Sif and the Warriors Three stood breathless behind Thor and Odin on the palace balcony, awaiting these very instructions, ready to mobilize the troops for a full-scale war.

“Father,” the god spoke without removing his gaze. “I have not seen anything of this kind before. Do you know what it could be? Is it malicious?” Odin narrowed his single eye in thought, betraying no fear if there was to be any lurking behind it. Though its King stood unwavering, Asgard trembled under the girth of the black planet’s silent, hovering mass.

“I have not. Though I am certain we will learn very soon of its intent.”

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~o~~~~~o~~~~~o~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

Tony was fidgeting. His head was mostly there, present for the group meeting deep in Fury’s SHIELD headquarters, but his hands would not stop roving the table top. He needed to calm down, badly, and being cooped up in a little room with the spandex wonder squad wasn't really helping.

_Hey Tony – fearless Avenger, remember? Get. With. The. Programme._

Across the table, Fury and the collective Avengers, save for Thor who hadn’t responded to the summons, were each wearing their own expressions of strained composure. Bruce might've been fighting off a migraine from the way he kept rubbing his temples and Clint was maybe a little over occupied with his bowstring but, all in all, they looked like a team that could handle a global emergency.

Tony just hoped he didn't look like the back row kid praying not to be picked for question C. He put conscious effort into copying Natasha's face. Natasha always did have a good calm-cover face.

Unfortunately, Tony's few moments of composure were almost immediately interrupted when a small, black sphere crashed through the ceiling. Which meant it had also just crashed through six levels of solid steel infrastructure.

 _Well shit_.

The Avengers sprung from their chairs and within an instant had encircled the intruder with two fire-arms, an explosive arrow and an adamantium shield. Not to mention Bruce, who was sporting a wary tinge of green.

Tony was about to summon his suit when, after hovering for a moment, the orb lowered, resting softly on the table and emanating a placid hum. Natasha took a guarded step forward, gun poised.

“Sir!” Agent Hill's voice burst over the intercom. “We’ve got a top level break-in by unclassified tech. It looks like a-”

“I can see it,” Fury grit out. Clearly having his impenetrable base suddenly penetrated wasn’t doing much to deny him his namesake. “Try to contain these things till we can find out what they–“

As if listening, the orb opened to project a digital screen above itself, its black and white static crackling into focus. The visual was so unexpected it took Tony a moment to register who or what he was seeing exactly.

From the projection’s noise emerged a woman’s face. Human enough. Pretty even – if it weren't for all the... adornments. Her face was powdered white, with yellow triangles painted over her lips, eyelids and cheekbones. Acid green hair swirled and teetered so far from her head it seemed to be seeking freedom, while her matching, conical dress sported more shimmering stars than a red-carpet event. In all, she looked like modern art gone awol.

The woman cleared her throat and, smiling crisply, addressed them with a grand opening of arms.

“Greetings, my dear, sentient beings!” came the first announcement, her voice bubbling with excitement. Tony and Bruce exchanged a wary look from across the table. Definitely not your typical opening line for an alien world-domination speech. “It is with great pleasure and anticipation that I welcome you and your galaxy’s participation,” she paused for a dramatic intake of breath “in the 2,529th Annual Hunger Games!”

Tony blinked.

Yeah, definitely not the usual.

 

 

 


	2. I Volunteer

 

 

Tony was typically pretty fast with the uptake, a fairly key quality for the coveted title ‘genius’, but this last announcement left him at a total standstill. Galaxy? Participation? Hunger Games? Was he supposed to believe that this woman, decked out brighter than a New York Christmas tree, was now speaking to the collective inhabitants of the _galaxy_? And not only that, but inviting them to a – a what? A sporting event? An inter-planetary mix-and-mingle potluck, complete with twister and musical chairs? Tony was still suffering the repercussions of his last Asgardian encounters and was none-too eager to make friends from the rest of these ‘realms’, as Thor called them. It was ludicrous, and he’d be damned if earth was going to acquiesce to some Andy Warhol reject, big looming death star or not.

“I must apologize for our sudden entrance,” The woman chirped lightly. “We do not mean to alarm you. Our ways of travel are simply quite rapid.”

 _Then park yourself further away,_ Tony thought bitterly, his anxiety edging away to irritation.

“Allow me to introduce ourselves,” she said, holding her hand over her chest, “we are The Capitol, aesthetic connoisseurs of the universe and hosts to the illustrious Hunger Games. We travel great distances to offer planets the unparalleled opportunity to compete in our exciting events. Never are two Hunger Games the same, and yet never do they fail to be thrilling, awe-inspiring and soul-touching!”

The fact that they couldn't respond but only listen to this pretentious dribble made Tony increasingly irate. If the cheery tone wasn’t enough, the woman’s word’s made him want to hurl the little orb into the nearest wall. A glance around the room told him the others weren’t too far off from that plan of action either. Fury especially.

“From each of your nine worlds,” she continued, “we will randomly select two tributes, one male and one female, who will represent their homes in an exhilarating... heart-wrenching... battle to the death!”

_Huh._

_Wait WHAT._

“There can be only one victor,” she held up a lone finger, “however, volunteers of the same gender _are_ allowed to take their place, as the stakes are indeed quite high. The winners,” she flourished with a pearly smile, “will be granted glorious riches, eternal honour, and our permission to return happily to their privileged existence.”

_I'll make YOUR existence a privilege, you pompous –_

“The losers, however,” her expression turned theatrically downcast, a polished hand clutching voraciously to her heart, “will be expected to forfeit their planet... and everything upon its surface.” She blinked repeatedly, as if to fight off a coming tear. “It is an unfortunate, but _necessary_ contribution for the continuation of our games.”

The Avengers watched in silence, their faces frozen in various postures of disbelief. Until Tony interjected.

“So, can we nuke them now, or...?”

She fell abruptly serious. “Now, as renowned as we have become in the universe, we realize there are still some of you who are unaware of our capabilities. Should any of you think to resist our invitation, we have devised a small exemplary display. May I ask that you attend closely to your screens.”

The gaudy face disappeared and the screen grew ten feet to accommodate its new images. A total of nine split screens, each portraying nine completely different terrains appeared. They ranged dramatically, from thick, rolling forest to metropolis cities to volcanic mountains to frost-laden wastelands. It was obvious then – this wasn't just Earth Tony was looking at.

He hardly had time to inspect them all when a concentrated torrent of light thrust into each frame, creating a blinding flash which engulfed the landscapes in smouldering black clouds. They bloomed like cysts upon the earth, rolling and seething skyward, until the entire screen was swallowed in darkness.

Tony's heart stopped.

“What... what was that?” Steve breathed out after a few moments. His brow was sweating. Fury was instantly on his headset.

“What the _HELL_ _was that_?” he snarled, nearly biting off the mic. “Someone tell me _exactly_ what that alien sunovabitch just did!” Before he could let out another string of curses, the darkness on the screens began to dissipate, as if being sucked up by a great vacuum. What it revealed made Tony sway where he was standing.

The settlements, the cities, the mountains, everything – was gone. In mere moments the diverse terrains had become completely uniform. Flat, empty and lifeless.

It seemed a trick. Like a photoshop job. It couldn't be the same shot.

Was the room spinning?

“S...Sir?” a small voice floated through the intercom.

Fury was shaking.

“ _What,_ ” he answered.

...

“Mongolia is gone.”

...

“ _What?_ ”

“Mongolia is... gone sir. And.. about an eighth of Russia. It’s just, not there anymore.”

 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~o~~~~~o~~~~~o~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

Thor was not estranged from death. His thoughts and dreams were consumed by it, swathed in the yawning void left in his mother and brother's absence. And yet for all his demented visions, for all his nightly tortures and trembling, sweat-drenched dawns – they could do nothing to prepare him for this moment.

A monumental section of the kingdom, along with all of its inhabitants, had just been snuffed from existence like no more than a candle light in smoke. There had been no vengeful intent. No war driven passion. Simply a demonstration. A calm statement within a whisper of time. And yet for a few, delicate moments to harbour such colossal magnitude of effect, Thor could do nothing to grasp it.

So he remained frozen, watching placidly as one does in dreams.

It was not until his father's hand appeared, clasping gently over his shoulder that Thor returned, careening to his senses. Fury surged like a wave through his veins, curling his spine in the semblance of a beast.

_NO._

His body shook.

They had amputated his kingdom – incinerated the bodies of his people – and for that, they would learn the true wrath of a Thunder God.

“By the Norns we will make them _pay_ for this.” Odin's eye was livid, jaw clenched to breaking point. Thor could only stare in anger. He was beyond words.

The screen before them shrunk to its original size and the strange female appeared again, her face mildly sympathetic. “As you can see, we are exceedingly prepared to eliminate any form of protest. We recommend that any attempts be abandoned now.” After a carefully timed pause, her smile returned with a flourish. “Well then, we shall move on – to the _reaping_ of the tributes! Should anyone wish to volunteer, simply place your hand on the projection.”

The screen fell back from her, revealing the woman to be in a vast, white room where eighteen, identical black boxes sat on gleaming white pedestals. She approached the first, and with a sweep of her shimmering sleeve, plunged her hand into its depths. When it rose, it held aloft a single slip of paper.

_This could not be real._

“From the world known as Alfheim,” she cleared her throat, holding it before her. “The female tribute will be... Odes Nykvist.”

The name made a hollow sound, like a rolling head.

A searing heat spread its way through Thor's limbs, his hands, his mind, engulfing his vision until he swore he could see the blood behind his eyes.

“We must fight them!” Sif announced furiously, striding to Thor's side. “We cannot let these ridiculous demands be met!”

“I agree!” Fandral joined in, falling beside her, “Asgard has faced many enemies who claimed to have us by the collar, and yet over and over we have asserted our strength and tenacity! We will fight these adversaries just as we have before!”

The names from Svartalfheim were drawn.

“No,” Odin's voice was not loud, but demanded all attentiveness. He stared deeply into space, not seeming to find focus anywhere. “We cannot fight them as we have done with others. These are not enemies we can simply match with arms and brute strength.”

“Then _what_ do you propose we do, father!?” Thor yelled suddenly, his hands trembling beside him. He could hardly see straight, his fury choking on every word.

Odin's eye met his son's, searching. Thor saw it then. He was shaken.

The names from Nidavellir were drawn.

“We cannot move by rash impulse,” the All-father continued steadily, regarding each of them. “We must bide our time and find a tactical standpoint. Uncover their weakness.” He turned to face Thor directly. “And to do that, we will mask resistance with complicity.”

Thor gaped. “ _Complicity!?_ They just destroyed a section of our Kingdom!” he shouted furiously. “And you're saying we should reply with _complicity?_ ” It was ludicrous! The notion of allowing a single living being, no matter which realm they be from, be harvested for some deprecating competition was enough to tear Thor's heart asunder.

“ _Yes_!” His father bellowed. “That's _exactly_ what I'm saying!” The look he gave Thor made him feel suddenly small, like a child. “Even _our_ weapons cannot match such swiftness and magnitude. If we strike without knowledge, Asgard would be destroyed before our ships even left the ground. If we move now, _we are all dead_!” He snarled with utter finality.

Thor fumed. It was infuriating, yet he could not deny his father's words. Thor had fought and won what were believed hopeless wars, faced foes of seemingly insurmountable strength and defeated them nonetheless, and yet this... They could not strike without risking the safety of Asgard – of all the realms. It was a situation which left even _him_ , for all his emboldened speeches, with no feasible fighting words.

Be that as it may, he would _never_ allow them to take his people.

The drawing of names repeated itself over and over as Thor watched in mounting horror. The tributes from Svartalfheim, Alfheim, Vanaheim, Niflheim, Muspelheim, Nidavellir and Jotunheim, were all plucked, smooth as grapes from a vine, before the reaping turned to Midgard. Thor only just realized his father's hand was again on his shoulder when it tightened.

He swore in that moment, should his courage follow or abandon him, he would somehow protect the nine realms and every name which passed that cursed woman's lips. It did not matter which name would be called for Asgard.

Its tribute would be him.

 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~o~~~~~o~~~~~o~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

Tony couldn't breath.

His neck was burning and it felt like the room was being smothered by a giant, heated blanket. Not to mention the walls, which were bulging in and out like a funhouse mirror.

_A country._

He couldn't feel his hands.

_They just blew up a fucking country._

He wanted to run.

_In seconds._

Could he? Just up and leave it to the others? _Sorry guys, need a little down-time, not feeling so hot, but text me when you've got this whole alien domination thing cleared up._

_Oh god. Ohgodohgod._

Earth's mightiest heroes might as well be cosplayers with cardboard weapons and armour for all the good they could do right now. It was like something out of a cheesy science-fiction novel. And yet this was happening. Everything he'd been dismissing as just another tedious, better-than-thou villain speech, everything about the Games, the tributes – was now quickly becoming a violent reality. His reality.

He shut his eyes.

And to think only minutes ago he had been devising every retaliation strategy under the sun. All the fire-arms earth had to offer, many of them his own creation, even accounting for those still in their test phase, he'd be willing to pull out early for this.

But after seeing what they could do, seeing a part of earth just – dissipate – in the blink of an eye...

_Slow, deep breath. Deep breath, Tony._

They made the Chitauri war look like some playground snowball fight, after which earth had celebrated like a cocky grade-schooler. But this - this was not something earth was prepared for. Not by a long shot. He could only hope that one of the other realms had something bigger up their sleeve, some shining solution that could save them all, because Tony Stark – Tony-genius-playboy- _freaking useless_ -Stark – most _certainly_ did not.

His head slowly, achingly, stopped spinning.

tony looked up, numbly regarding the faces around him. Here they were – earth's mightiest – the epitomic image of valour and bravery – currently flipping their shit.

Fury was alternating between shouting orders into his transmitter and orchestrating a flying spit battle between Steve and Clint, while Natasha hovered anxiously over a sallow-faced Bruce, trying to prevent a full-out hulking – 'cause yeah, they could really use that little tantrum right now – and then, there was Tony – quivering in his own little corner of catatonic terror.

The _Avengers_ , ladies and gentlemen.

“Everyone stop!” Steve shouted, immediately quieting the clamor. His lunch wasn't looking too stable either. “Look, I know this is bad. They've just pulled a big move on us and, frankly, it's obvious we don't have the means to strike back.”

Ah, good speech. So uplifting.

“We can't match them with weapons,” he said bitterly, sliding his hand through his hair. “So we'll have to focus on what we _can_ do.”

It didn't take a genius to guess what that was.

Tony swallowed.

“Ladies first,” cooed the reaper.

Natasha's hand was on the screen before the name was even called. “I volunteer,” she said stonily. The space around her hand glowed a deep red, then faded.

“A most gracious volunteer,” the woman smiled, her hand to her heart. Natasha quietly took her seat, folding her arms over her chest like she'd done no more than hand in a school paper. “And now for the male.”

Well, this was it. Time to put everything on the line and volunteer for the space-jam, death Olympics. Yeah, Tony fancied himself a hero, a slightly unconventional one, but a hero nonetheless. It was his _job_ to offer himself to these kinds of situations. He certified it every time he wore the Iron Man helmet. So this shouldn't be any different, right?

_Right?_

“Tony Stark,” the woman proclaimed, “will be the male tribute from Earth.”

....

_Ah._

_Well then._

_...._

It took a very, very long moment for Tony to realize that the name was actually his. Tony. Tony Stark. He _was_ Tony Stark. The choice had just, miraculously, been made for him.

“Oh.” He blinked, all eyes on him. “Oh,” was really the best he could offer.

Of course, punctual Steve took the wheel.

“I'll go.”

He looked Tony dead on, his face genuinely sympathetic. “It's alright, Tony, you've already pulled a big one for Earth. You don't have to make the sacrifice play this time.” he gave Tony's shoulder a soft squeeze as he walked by him, heading for the screen. Everyone watched, expectantly.

Perfect. Steve would take the blow, carry the world like a shining Atlas. Good ol' Steve. Tony could relax. It's not like his being picked was some fateful message from the gods or something. What did it matter? Disturbing, yes – that an Avenger would be chosen out of all the billion potentials. But obviously a mistake. Tony wasn't the man for this job. He didn't need that responsibility – he didn't. Steve would go and earth would be fine. Earth would be just...

_Damn._

“No, actually.”

Steve froze.

“I do,” Tony stated, putting himself between Steve and the projection. The blonde glowered down at him.

“Tony, I'm not trying to show you up here. I honestly think this is the right course of action.”

“And I _honestly_ think you're wrong,” Tony rebuked, matching Steve's glare despite the height difference. “Earth needs its leaders right now, and you, golden boy, are one of the best it's got. You throw yourself out to some competition and we've got one less strategist in our arsenal.”

Steve huffed, a little thrown off by complement. “And what about you? What makes you think you're the best man for the job up there and not down here?”

Tony considered. Yeah, why _was_ he doing this again?

“Because, Shirley Temple, unlike you I actually know the difference between a warhead and a microwave. If I can get a first hand look at how their technology and weaponry works, I might just be able to do something about it. Turn it off, use it against them – give the earth a chance to fight back.”

Steve gave him a dubious look.

“It's a long shot, I know, but if anyone can do it... frankly, _I_ can,” Tony shrugged. Steve still didn't look convinced.

“And what about the Games,” Natasha broke in. “You up for that, too?”

Tony swallowed again. “Yeah,” he nodded slightly, then again more firmly. “Piece of cake.” It didn't help that his legs were still shaking.

“ _Stark_ ,” Fury warned darkly, “this isn't a joke. You fail, and our planet is lost.”

Tony looked to all the faces of his companions. They were all fixed on him, waiting.

“ _Guys,_ ” he said warmly, holding out his arms as if he were on a podium, fingers tingling,

“I'm Iron Man. I've _got_ this.”

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~o~~~~~o~~~~~o~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

Thor did not know the woman, but the sound of the Aesir name as it was pulled made something gnash and writhe within him.

“I volunteer,” said Sif without a moment's hesitation. Thor watched helplessly as she walked up to the screen, raising her hand to it. His dear friend... his comrade in arms. Of course, he knew there were no words that could change her mind. She really was one of Asgard's finest warriors and it came as no surprise that she would offer herself, even if, by allowing it, he felt something break inside him.

“Thank you,” the Capitol woman smiled, “for your gracious sacrifice.”

Thor watched as Sif stepped away, her features cast in sharp resolution.

“Sif, I am truly sorry,” Thor's throat tightened, “but I will be volunteering as well.”

Her composure crumbled. “ _What?_ ”

“Thor, you can't possibly go!” Fandral rushed beside him. “Asgard needs you!”

“Exactly,” Thor conceded, “It needs a strong warrior who can stand up and fight for its people,” he turned to his father, who had been utterly silent over the last few minutes. “And from here, Asgard's king will lead them, and find a way to save the other realms.” Odin only stared, his skin paler than snow.

“And now, the male tribute from Asgard,” the woman sniffed, holding the chosen slip high as she read, “Anleifr Gunvaldson.”

Thor took one last look at them all and, taking strength from the presence of his friends and father, strode forward. He was already halfway to the screen, hand raised in certainty, when an all-too familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.

“I volunteer.”

Thor turned. They all turned. It were as if a ghost had just solidified.

Where his father had been only moments before, Loki stood, the shimmering drape of his magic falling away to reveal the emerald green and gold of his armour, his expression cold and defeated.

Thor and the others could only stare, rooted in disbelief as Loki passed between them, placing his hand gently over the screen.

“Thank you, your sacrifice is warmly accepted.”

Loki turned back to face them all, a nervous smile sliding over his lips.

“And that,” the woman announced, “brings us to the end of the reapings.” She clasped her hands together, as if in prayer. “Congratulations, tributes, on being chosen for this honourable role! We will come to collect each of you in one day's time.” She made a grand, conclusive bow. “Again, happy Hunger Games, and may the odds,” her smile glinted like mercury, “be _ever_ in your favour.”

The screen fell black and the orb instantly rose into the air, made a final sweep, and departed skywards. Like a swarm of locusts, the collective spheres ascended from the city, retreating to their hungry planet.

Thor faced his brother, speechless. 

 

 


	3. Now You See Me

 

Tony sat in silence on the far side of the room, staring at a single point on the wall. Fury was currently in a meeting with the Council, deliberating Earth's next course of action while the others were conversing rapidly amongst themselves, watching Tony like an animal they'd just quarantined. They were trying to devise a feasible retaliation while Steve attempted (somewhat successfully) to keep order.

Tony wasn't in a very participating mood.

They only had one day to meet the Capitol's demands, and if not? The trigger on earth would be pulled and there would be no-one left to Avenge it. No-one local anyway. And how fast would it take them to take out the other realms too? Would Thor and Asgard even have a chance to respond before being extinguished as well? Is extinguished the right word? What even happened out there? Incineration? Pulverization? Let's go with complete decimation for now.

Shit. _Shit._

This was definitely not good.

And Tony – good ol' centre-stage, Tony – had just rolled out his own red carpet.

But hey, it was better than an abrupt, Chitauri-style take-over, right? At least a galactic competition gave the Earth the opportunity to come out victorious and alive. Not to mention it gave them _time_.

But then, just how much time _could_ Tony offer? Sure, yeah, Iron Man and all that, engineering mastermind and top-of-the-pile weapon-guru – certainly not the worst contestant for a death match melee, but he still knew nothing about the conditions, or his opponents for that matter. What kind of abilities would they have? Where would it take place? But most importantly...

Tony's chest convulsed. _What if he couldn't have his suit?_

Now there's the golden question.

True, he had come to the recent realization that he _is_ Iron Man, that it's the man behind the suit that makes the hero and all that... but damn, the suit sure helps. Why else would he rebuild it, even after his little let-go-firework display? ('cause, lets be honest, a self-discovery by Tony Stark requires at least a few fireworks). But back to the point - he didn't have Steve's enhanced strength, or Natasha's combat skills, or Bruce's berserker-alter-ego. In a ring of super-powered aliens, without his suit he'd be little more than a well-dressed meat shield.

In other words. _Fucked._

Fury burst through the door, and with it, Tony's horrifying mental image.

“I've spoken with the Council,” he said. Everyone stopped to face him. “The world, as I'm sure you've guessed, is in chaos. Mass outbreaks of religious hysteria and rioting, social services falling apart and people everywhere are migrating in droves, trying to find somewhere safe. Which there _isn't_ ,” he grit through his teeth. “SHIELD is aligning with the United Nations and will be joining a global conference to see what can be done. We'll also keep trying to contact Thor. In the meantime,” he inhaled deeply, shutting his good eye, “as much as I hate to give these primadonna piss-ants what they want,” Fury's gaze opened straight on Tony.

Tony stood then at his full height, swallowing down the last wave of anxiety. There was really no other option.

“We play their game.”

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~o~~~~~o~~~~~o~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

He really should have seen the blow coming, in all honesty.

And yet the way his brother had approached him in the following moment – with a slow, faltering stride, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed, more fitting of an awe-struck child than a grown man – it almost made Loki believe the brute was coming in for a spine-shattering embrace.

Should have known, really.

“It's always a pleasure with you, brother,” he said, wiping the blood from his lip and pulling himself gingerly from the wall. The dent crumbled a bit at his departure.

Thor was still standing where he'd struck, his fist clenched and shaking. In all his years, Loki could not recall such a livid look gracing his brother's features, which was quite something, given all that he'd done to deserve them in the past.

“And here I thought you'd finally reigned your brash impulses,” Loki sighed, wiping the debris from his armour. “Seems you haven't grown nearly as much as I'd-”

Thor grabbed his brother by the shoulders, slamming him back to the wall with the ferocity of a bull.

“Was it not enough,” Thor bellowed, only inches from his face, “to have me suffer the loss of your death not once, but _twice_ in this lifetime? Do you have _any_ idea how much it affected us? How anguished I was to see you _dead!_ ”

Loki coughed from the impact. “From the way you handle me brother, I'd think you rather preferred it,” he winced as the larger man crushed his arms to the wall.

“Do _not_ ,” Thor grit through his teeth, “ _take my mourning lightly._ ” Fandral made to approach them, his complexion whiter than a sheet. “ _Leave us_!” Thor snarled. The warriors hesitated, uncertain whether they could abandon Thor at such a time, but soon obeyed. Loki received one last acid look from Sif before she departed with the others, leaving the two brothers alone on the veranda.

“You _liar,_ ” Thor choked. “You...” His breath descended in ragged huffs, his mouth opening and closing in a struggle to form words. “I thought – in our final battle together... I thought I saw glimpses of my brother again.” he shook his head. “But now I see – you are nothing but the soulless husk that wears his face!”

_Oh, really now._

“And what _would_ you have had me do, Thor?” Loki snarled, matching his brother's intensity. “Follow you back to Asgard where I'd be heralded as a hero? All past transgressions forgiven over a few acts of decency and valour?” He wore his disgust plainly now. “Are you so naiive to think our returns would be treated equal? While you would be crowned upon the doorstep, I – well, I'd be lucky if they escorted me back to my cell, should my break-out not merit the gallows outright,” he flicked his hand in dismissal.

Thor continued to glower over him, though his voice lowered slightly. “I would _not_ have let that happen. You would have been under my protection.”

Loki could not prevent the smirk curling over his lips.

“ _your_ protection?” he scoffed. “Tell me, where exactly was _your_ protection when I fell from the bifrost? Or during my trial - when I was nearly sentenced to death? Or how about when I was left rotting in a cell, forgotten as another fading blotch on Asgard's glorious legacy – _where was your protection THEN, Thor?_ ” he shouted, shoving furiously against his brother's massive bulk. It was like trying to push over a mountain. “ _Not exactly something I can rely on, now is it?_ ”

Thor looked like he wanted to retort with a string of harsh insults, or maybe another punch, but he seemed to restrain both his hands and his words. He took a deep, steadying breath. “There is only so much I can do to protect you from yourself, Loki. It was your own choices which brought you these hardships,” he said darkly.

Loki let out something between a laugh and a choke. _His_ choices? So this was all reduced to the simple matter of _his_ choices? How typical of Thor to use such economical thinking. Which was not really much at all.

“How can you perceive so blindly?” Loki admonished, his disgust vivid as he writhed under his brother's grip, the wall grating heavily on his back.

“I could say the same of you,” Thor growled, pinning Loki's arms harder in response. “How can you deny the wrongness of your actions?”

“Why, because they are perfectly _right_ ,” he squirmed.

“Loki...”

“Is it not apt?” His smile returned, suddenly sharp and maniac. “The sinister frost giant, come to prey on innocent Asgardians? Wreaking havoc and devastation in its wake?”

“Do not jest with me,” Thor warned.

“Does it sound like I am jesting, Thor? It must seem quite the joke from your end.”

“Do not put words in my mouth!”

“Why not? You've allowed me _plenty_ before!”

“Loki, ENOUGH!” Thor grabbed the nape of his brother's neck, putting a careful amount of pressure behind the hollow nook of his jawline. Loki immediately felt his pulse slow, the tension in his body slipping away like silk under the firm grip. “For once can you not speak plainly? In truth?” Thor pleaded, hanging his head.

Loki blinked back dazedly, struggling to find his focus again. His breathing came slowly now, all humour stripped from his features as he stared at the massive man before him.

It always came back to this.

He knew it was no use trying to escape Thor. Every failed assault he'd made on his brother's life only proved the futility of it – that he could somehow quench his long-festered resentment of the man by simply removing him. And why not? Thor had all but discarded _him_ , sifting Loki from his thoughts like some childhood storybook. Many times he had offered his wisdom to Thor, his aid, his friendship. And yet time after time he was always silenced, by a hand or a shoulder – the turn which put Loki forever in the shadow of Thor's back.

He used to think, in smaller moments, that perhaps his silence complemented Thor's voice. That his shadow made him all the brighter for it. But it was not enough. He could feel himself disappearing, becoming invisible in his brother's eyes as his body turned to ghost – with flesh and bones, yes, but a substance without presence. He began to live through that image, wandering the palace halls by night, imagining his fingertips sliding through the cold, smooth surface of the walls as he passed along them, his timid footsteps only echoes of those who had walked before.

People see themselves in the eyes of those they love and Loki began to hate seeing himself through Thor's. Because he saw the truth. He saw nothing.

And so, as Loki's world grew small and faint, Thor's grew ever larger, his radiance known to all those around him save the one who loved him most. Then came the day of his brother's coronation. Loki made his decision then; if he could not be a part of Thor's world, he would simply destroy it.

And yet... despite this – despite every effort Loki made to remove his brother from his life – he would always find a way to thrash back in, forcing him to face his own worthless image time and time again. And _for what_? For the sake of some memory? Some faintly scattered image of the past – when the world was just a playground shared between them, their backs warmed against the riverside rocks, trading dreams for secrets like summer's gold – the riches of boys already kings in their minds.

 _Ah_... enticing, yes. But Loki knew better now.

Under the guise of Odin, Loki had expected the full girth of Thor's admiration, expecting to keep it at arms length. And yet despite considerable cautions, the attention had lured him like honey, rich and encompassing, until his mask seemed to be no more than air. It had been so easy – advising Thor, having his notice drawn to every word, every thought, that he had even began, quietly, to enjoy it. It was self-indulgent, he knew, and should never have allowed himself the pleasure. Like all things good and warm in life, they did not belong to him. Thor would never look at him that way again.

“Truth?” Loki felt his skin prickle as he spoke. “Truth is hard to come by for me.”

Thor still cradled the back of Loki's neck as he leaned in, foreboding. “ _Try.”_

Loki huffed, looking away, then back again resolutely.

_So be it._

“You know the story, Thor,” he sneered. “I was raised under the guise of an Asgardian prince – a potential _King._ And all the while, fed with stories of monsters – depraved heathens of the cold. Very convincing.” His gaze wandered for a moment before returning. “So when the veil finally lifted, and I saw I was no more than a show puppet, dressed in all the costumes and baseless pride of your people, when I realized that the one thing I _truly_ was, was everything I'd learned to despise – what do you think happened Thor?” His brother squeezed minutely harder. “I tried, and believe me I _have_ tried – to be like you,” he laughed shortly. “I should have known it was futile to resist my _true_ nature.”

Thor remained silent.

“And you stand there, saying I alone am to blame, yet have I not acted accordingly?” his voice rose again. “If my actions are wrong, then I have been _cast_ in wrongness.” Magic crackled through his fingertips. “This realm _creates_ its monsters, and I am nothing if not the fruit of its labours – I act only the role I was dealt and believe me, it is _received_ as verily as it is played! So tell me, Thor – tell me how _deserving_ I am of punishment! – _TELL ME OF MY CHOICES!_ ”

Loki could hear his voice echo down the grand hallways, reverberating off every surface until only the sound of his own shaking breath remained.

“Then why did you volunteer.”

“I-...” _What?_

Thor finally withdrew his hands then, the anger on his face subsiding into something far more hollow.

“You condemn Asgard, though it gave you your life, dissatisfied as you seem to be with it,” he scoffed, then softened again. “And yet now that the kingdom is in greatest need, you chose to stand for it – for me,” he added quietly.

Loki stared, his words miraculously failing him. Thor may as well have punched him in the stomach.

Yes. He _had_ volunteered for Thor. He couldn't stop himself. Even though it had meant the loss of Odin's disguise, even though it would cost him the throne, the kingdom – the moment he saw Thor reaching out his hand, ready to offer himself, his life... Loki's entire being had screamed in protest. It made him furious and dizzy at the same time and had shaken him beyond all words but for the two he spoke.

So yes, he supposed he _had_ made his choice in that moment.

Loki rolled his eyes.

“Do not romanticize my actions. If I hadn't, your witless sentiment would have killed us all.” Thor looked about to protest when Loki cut him off. “ –This isn't a hero's game, Thor. It's a _slaughter run_ , simple as that.” He regarded his brother skeptically, finally lifting himself from the wall. “You think yourself ready, but the moment your blade should cross your precious Midgardians – or _Sif –_ when one swing will mean the difference between Asgard's destruction and salvation...” Thor's face hardened as Loki leaned in menacingly. “You won't do it. You're not that _breed_ of man,” he whispered, a pernicious smile sliding over his lips. “ _But I am_.”

Thor glowered across the balcony. Of course, he knew his brother was right. Standing against his friends would be more soul-wrenching than even Thor could bear. To even think about fighting them- let alone kill them? Even if it were for the sake of Asgard's safety, it would devour him from the inside out. And yet the only alternative was to allow Loki to do so in his stead. The contention was visibly crushing him, and yet, Thor's semblance softened in the following moment.

“That may be true, Loki, but I still think your actions less selfish than you'd have me believe.”

Loki threw him a sceptical look. Thor raised his eyebrows, expectantly. The urge to punch his brother's oafish face in that moment became suddenly overpowering, and he seriously considered relenting for a second before settling with an exasperated sigh.

 _Gods,_ he hated that man.

“It is as you say,” Loki began wearily, walking past his brother to the balcony's edge. “I detest my life here, and my deplorable place within it –”

Thor's shoulders lowered perceptibly. Honestly, the man was more readable than a children's book.

“ – But it is still my home,” Loki sighed again, looking out over the glistening city, hundreds of windows alight with candles and prayers. Not a soul wandered the streets, fear rooting them to their homes and stations. “I cannot forsake this place,” he said finally, facing Thor with all the integrity he could manage. “I will fight for Asgard.”

Thor let out a deep sigh then, all the intensity from before draining out from him. But in its place, a new kind of strength seemed to take hold. He looked much older in that moment, and it was true, Loki thought, his brother had grown considerably over the last few years. Despite Odin's close hold, and how often the two seemed to speak as if as one, Thor had begun to develop his own standing.

“I cannot atone for the lies you have had to live, Loki, but if you truly wish to break free of them, now would be the time to do so.”

_Ah Thor, ever the optimist._

“And despite... our disagreements,” he continued slowly, turning to him, “I still wish it was not you I will have to watch go.”

Loki frowned at that, a little staggered by the sudden sentiment, though it quickly morphed into a smirk. “Why so, brother? Shouldn't you be glad that one of Asgard's finest warriors will be defending the realm? You should know that I have every intent on returning.”

Even Thor had to smirk at that. “So long as your ego does not detriment your fighting.”

“Sounds like something I'd say of you,”

“It was.”

They both grinned, reminding him of something faint and distant, and it was odd how much he found himself wanting it to stay. It was a shallow moment though, as of course, any calm founded between the brothers was doomed from the start.

Thor's face clouded suddenly, as something seemed to click.

“Loki... where is father?”

Loki's breath hitched. _Oh yes. That._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Icy-Mischief for head-canon inspiration from her character analysis


	4. The Capitol

 

Tony had spent the night in Redbull delirium, hands and mind in constant motion as he tried to process everything Fury had been briefing him on.

Their objective was to uncover everything and anything they could on the Capitol's weapon tech and relay it back to SHIELD. To do so, they bugged his and Natasha's clothes with the latest espionage cameras and microphones, equipped with NASA-strength transmitters that would, if there was no interference, reach the Capitol's planet. Between messages from concerned world leaders and trembling embraces from Pepper, Tony had spent his last few hours amping his suit up for the coming fight, all the while unable to shake the persistent, hovering sensation of doom.

Indeed, the next morning arrived in expected fashion.

Like a sledgehammer to the face.

When the Capitol's soldiers came to retrieve them, the case which held his suit was immediately rejected, all belongings but the clothes on his back forcibly left behind and with it, practically all hope of Tony's survival.

He felt ripped out, gutted. Like customs had just deemed his spleen unworthy of the flight. Or his lungs.

Of course, everything from the 'life support system' excuse to blatant bribery only met with increased annoyance from the guards. ' _A man who needs life support shouldn't have volunteered, eh?'_ Yes, he could have fought harder. _Yes,_ he could have made a huge scene, but with his entire planet now held at global gun-point – what else could he do? As of this moment he was, in all practicality, their prisoner.

Terrifying as it was, he would just have to find his way without it.

And if that wasn't enough, the vast number of people who came to watch his and Natasha's collection was only somewhat horrifying. Of course Tony was used to the pressure of other people's lives depending on him. Hell, he once had to redirect a nuclear warhead from New York on his back. But this wasn't the heat of battle, and he didn't have his suit now. It was just Tony, a slightly hungover man boarding a spherical space-pod with a pair of white-armoured soldiers on the side of the road. Not really the epic-sized spectacle he was known for.

He noticed some of the solemn spectators were holding flowers and Tony assumed they were meant to be symbols of hope but honestly it just made the whole thing feel like a funeral.

Bruce put a heavy hand on his shoulder then, squeezing it gently.

“Think they'll be as fun at my welcome-back party?” Tony asked, jerking his thumb at the crowd.

The other man looked to them. “Possibly,” he squinted. “If we haven't jumped planet by then.”

“Your faith is stifling doc, but seriously, can I get a little locker-room pep talk here? Brief me on my awesome, brilliant, capable qualities? I could kinda... use it,” he mumbled, straightening his sleeves.

Bruce considered for a moment, adjusting his glasses. “Pretty sure it would sound like an obituary,” he conceded finally.

Tony chewed his lip. _Fair enough._

“But really, Tony.” Bruce gave him a lopsided look. “Come back.” Tony nodded, forcing a sharp smile in return and letting his eyes meet with the others. Clint. Steve. Natasha. The team.

“Don't worry, I'll keep him upright,” Natasha promised, hip jutted to the side, composed as ever. For once Steve only watched Tony in silence, looking even more doubtful than he had the day before. It seemed even the great Captain's speeches had run dry that day.

One of the guards held out his hand then, pointing at Tony's earpiece. Right.

“Well, see you later Jarvis,” he muttered, unhinging his last connection to the household, his tech, his artificial nanny without whom he could hardly recall the key ingredients of an omelet. Really, to say he was leaving his life support system was no overstatement.

“ _Goodbye sir. I wish you all the best and a safe return._ ”

“Full jurisdiction override to Pepper. You know the drill,” he said, handing it over to her with a wink. Her face was a grey, sunken slab.

“ _Of course, sir._ ”

Pepper didn't offer any words. Only her lips, soft and hushed against his for an eternity and then only a second. It was the warmest, cruelest thing he had ever tasted, and for all he knew, it would be the last.

Natasha had Clint's hand in a firm shake before he pulled her in for a clumsy embrace. After a wary moment, she returned it wholeheartedly, and when they finally separated Tony received a curt nod.

Well, that was it then.

He felt every pair of eyes as they walked the plank, entering the cold grey interior and hearing the door shut behind them with a metallic click. Naturally, Pepper was the hardest to see off. Hers was the last face he saw and refused to look away from, even as the pod began to lift into the air. Soon, her vibrant hair was no more than a flicker in the distance.

Tony watched the city shrink below him, the buildings and roads reduced to hazy shapes as they passed through layers of clouds and atmosphere. It wasn't the first time he'd had this view, but now his hands felt cold with sweat and he thought he might be sick.

It felt like Earth was the one moving away now, and not Tony sinking into the universe. That the planet was deserting _him_. He had no doubt that Fury would destroy the Capitol in a heartbeat if he found a way, and Tony undoubtedly with it, and it made him realize in that moment just how irreversibly severed he now was from home. Natasha stood beside him, watching the window in calm contemplation. _How the hell did she do that?_

“Sit down, they're about to tear a rift for us,” one of the guards indicated the wall seats with his gun. They both complied, of course.

“A rift?” Tony asked numbly, unable to tear his eyes away from the window. The planet already looked painfully delicate from up here.

As if answering for the guards, the pod jolted aggressively, and the massive earth which Tony had been watching was suddenly the size of a pea. He nearly heaved.

Natasha grabbed the wall for support. “Did we just -?”

“Teleport? Eyup.” The other guard seemed to be chuckling under his helmet.

Tony's need for a paper flight bag was suddenly much more urgent.

Fortunately, their space-trip was already, miraculously ending, as the stars were soon swallowed by massive, black walls enveloping the pod from all sides. He felt a slight jolt as the craft connected with solid ground, and wasn't sure whether to feel more or less relieved by it.

 _Well, this was it._ Tony sucked in a breath.

After a moment the pod door opened, allowing Tony and Natasha to cautiously follow the soldiers into their new surroundings.

Tony's jaw dropped.

The size of the hangar was staggering, with enough room to comfortably host twelve of Fury's floating hellicarriers and still have space for a few jet fighters on the side. The air-crafts they had instead were all varying sizes of spheres, some as big as a truck, others the diameter of a fifteen story building.

They followed the guards through the bustling airdock and into an elevator where they stood facing the door. One of them pushed minus 28.

_Minus?_

“Are we going underground or something?” Tony assumed they were already close to the surface.

“In a way,” one of them offered. The numbers flew by. “Though I wouldn't say ground. This isn't a planet.”

The elevator beeped as they arrived at their level.

“This is a ship.”

The doors divided, and Tony was faced with the most incredible view of his life.

They stood in a cacophony of sound and colour, the buildings a collage of towering, glistening palaces, all white with sharp angles, many so tall he could not see their end. There were no trees in sight, but the presence of electronics was astounding. Plastered on the sides of buildings and floating amidst them were huge electronic screens, advertising the strangest assortments of products and trends, from shampoo that shed snowflakes to lipstick that screened movies on your mouth. More spherical shaped pods whirred frantically through the air, the outlines of people showing through their tinted glass. All in all, the place made Japan's Akihabara district look like a Futureshop discount bin.

If the surroundings weren't strange enough though, the people certainly added the custard on top. But actually, some of them could have been wearing custard for clothing. The flamboyant masses of colours, shapes, ruffles, bows, sequins and more nauseating fashion statements than Tony could swallow over a lifetime shuffled busily by in the streets before him. Both men and women wore tremendous amounts of makeup, accentuating features with every hue and shape imaginable. Some was not even static, but rather shifted and shimmered across their faces like shadows or ink diffusing in water. They were certainly human looking, despite their eccentricities, and yet all were disturbingly beautiful – every face a new flavour of perfection.

Again, not even the weirdest part. Above the colourful people and the strikingly tall buildings, above the blaring noise and advertisements, was a giant sun obscured in a smoggy, grey sky. And like an orbiting moon, another smaller sphere hung directly below it, its surface as black as oil.

Tony was speechless. Had they not said this was a ship? What was a freaking _sun_ doing inside a _ship_? It couldn't have been as large as Earth's sun, but still, there it was, providing light and warmth and how could a ship this large even exist? Where did the sky end? How did they get here? _And how could..._ He grabbed himself awake just as he felt his world slipping.

 _No_. Tony Stark. Fearless Avenger. Electrical-engineering mastermind was _not_ going to faint on the doorstep of this ridiculous alien world.

He would however, sit down.

“Woah, not so fast, buddy,” one of soldiers said, grabbing him up by the arm. “You've got a train to catch.”

“A train?”

Tony was just finding his footing again when a slender, yellow-suited man dislodged himself from the passing swarm of people. He scuttled his way over to them, wearing a smile as big as his bow. When he approached, the man's frilly cuff's bounced around him, his fair beard swirling like candy floss below freckled cheeks and bright, popping eyes. The whole ensemble made Tony's eyes hurt.

“Let me guess, you're here to welcome us to Munchkin Land,” he said sourly.

The man's eyebrows shot up like spooked rabbits. “ _I'm sorry_? Oh dear no! you must be mistaken.” He made a quick nod, followed by a smooth, circular motion of the wrist. “My name is Vibius. I will be your planet's escort for the duration of the opening and, _if all goes well,_ ” he chuckled, “closing ceremonies.”

“Tony,” he offered, somewhat dubiously. Vibius snatched his hand and held it firmly in both his own.

“It is a _pleasure_ to make your acquaintance, Tony,” he smiled brightly. “And _you_ must be Natasha,” he guessed, turning to her. She kept her arms tightly folded. “A pleasure as well. Now! Let's get you two on board. I have much to fill you in on, so we might as well dive in!”

_Might as well._

They followed the foppish man through a myriad of bustling streets, The two guards never more than a few steps behind, though it would seem they weren't there to restrain _them_ after all.

Within moments, pedestrians began staring and waving as they walked, even calling out to them. Tony felt someone's hand on his back, and before long their calls had escalated into a frenzy of cheering and shouting, a mob suddenly forming as the guards had to push people away to make room.

“ _What the hell?_ ” Tony yelled over the swarm, suddenly surrounded. It's not like he wasn't used to mobs of screaming fans, or protestors for that matter, but he hardly expected this kind of reception _now_.

“We're almost there!” Vibius shouted over his shoulder, jabbing his way through the throng.

Carnival-esque faces pressed in from all sides, their glittery hands snagging and grabbing onto any material or body parts they could find.

For God's sake what was _wrong_ with these people? Why were they so stoked to see them? And why did everything smell like burnt hair? Tony's eyes stung and he wanted nothing more than to curl up and disappear in a hole. Ideally with a gin and tonic.

By the time they reached the station, more tousled and trounced than a birthday bouncy-castle, Tony's nerves were all but a twitching wreck. After seeing off his world and loved ones for possibly the last time, followed by a sickening space-ride and a close call heart-attack, and now, having nearly been smothered to death by a horde of exuberant candy corn...

Tony snapped.

Vibius was chirping something about fashionable facial hair and the current ambassadors in town when Tony seized him by the collar. “What the _hell_ was that? I thought you people wanted to kill us, not worship us like some kind of a – a...”

“A celebrity?” Vibius grinned, showing more than a few golden teeth. “I would try to get used to it if I were you. Tributes play very important roles here in the Capitol, and it's my job to help you fill that role,” he gently uncurled Tony's fingers and, following a sympathetic pat, strode up the train steps to hold open the door.

Tony could only gawk at the man. Did he not see how utterly sick this was? Harvesting people for a high-stake slaughter competition only to wave them in like teenage pop stars?

But then, why not, right? May as well give the show sheep a pedestal before it meets the butcher.

After a hard shove from Natasha, Tony boarded the train. This whole thing was seriously messed up. Everything. All of it. Did human rights mean nothing to these people? Human _decency_ even? Of course not, aliens. Right. He just hoped Fury and the others were getting something from all this, 'cause Tony had just resigned himself from this cognitive bandwagon.

“Now, we have lots to prepare before the opening ceremonies,” their escort lectured, leading them down the brightly decorated carriages.

_Opening ceremonies?_

“I thought we were heading to a death match.”

“Oh yes, all that will come later. But first, we have to make arrangements for your clothes, the parade, the interviews, the banquet...” he rattled off, counting on his fingers.

“Woah – _hold the phone_.” Tony came to a complete stop, his head buzzing to process that last bit of news. “Look buddy, I didn't sign up for some Ms. America beauty pageant –”

Vibius swirled around. “Of course not! You signed up for the _Hunger Games_!” He seemed scandalized that Tony would make such a mistake.

“I- _what?_ Yes, _I know._ What I'm _saying_ is, I don't know what this little shindig is you're planning, but I'm sure as hell not here to gallivant around for some stupid celebrity tour. I'm here to kick some alien ass, survive, and go home, is that clear?”

Vibius looked like a kid whose ice-cream just hit pavement. “But Tony,” he pouted, “the opening ceremonies are one of the highlights of the Games. It's a chance for you to show the people who you are, make an impression, even steal some hearts,” the wink he gave made Tony want to rip each of his glittery eyelashes off individually. “And besides,” his tone lowered, “you don't really have a choice, now do you?”

Tony balked.Who did this shmarmy puff-ball think he was? Ordering Tony Stark around like some first-day office intern... He was about to tell the man where he could stick his opening ceremonies when Natasha grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, bracing him with a glare that could level a city. Tony's mouth shut instantly.

Vibius must have took his silence as agreement then, as he turned with a nod, opening one last door for them. Under Natasha's watch, Tony complied without retort, albeit grudgingly.

“Excellent! Make yourselves comfortable, I'll be back shortly to brief you both on the schedule.” He sucked in a deep breath, looking between the two as if he were about to bubble over. “I have _such_ beautiful tributes this year,” he cooed, “not like last years, eugh, those jowls were a _nightmare._ And then with the _shedding_...” He seemed to drift for a moment before remembering himself. “But yes, I shall return! Happy Hunger Games!” And in a flash of yellow he was gone, leaving Tony and Natasha, to his glorious relief, alone.

The compartment was luxurious, to say to the least. Dressed to the nines with appetizers, desserts, television, mini-bar and a full lounge seating area, it was, Tony admitted, more impressive than any first class trains he'd ever taken on Earth. Not that Tony rode many trains, what with having a personal jet.

“You know, for a genius you can be a real idiot sometimes.”

Tony turned to a very unimpressed looking red head. “Excuse me?”

She struck like a cobra. “You think this is a _joke_? We're on a _mission_ , Tony, and your ego is going to get us killed if you don't learn to contain it,” she warned, pointing hard at his chest.

Tony puffed, crossing his arms. “So what – you're saying you're fine taking orders from these powder-nosed sociopaths? Let them parade us around like some alien freak-show?”

“Yes,” she said, like it were the most obvious thing. She rolled her eyes when Tony still looked indignant. “Look Tony, the more time we have to 'gallivant' around, the more time we have to learn about this place. Our goal is to disable them, preferably without losing our heads and – if we're lucky – _before_ we enter the arena, and to do that we need to act _docile_. That means keeping our eyes open and our mouths shut. Can you do that?”

Tony wanted to argue but she was, to his increasing vexation, completely right. They needed the time and the intel, and as much as he loathed being told what to do, he ultimately had no say here. None. Unless he wanted Earth to end up as a shrivelled raisin, he would have to dance to their music. And that, in the most agonizing sense, meant turning down his own. The thought alone made him sick.

He exhaled loudly to the roof. _Hel-loo migraine, care for a seat?_

“Yeah, yeah I can do that,” he said, giving a careless wave and turning away. She almost looked relieved. Tony remembered the mini-bar then and, deciding he might find a more amiable acquaintance there, sauntered over. “Drink?” he offered.

“We're working, Tony.”

“And this is how I work,” he shrugged, pouring himself a generous helping of scotch. Well, it smelled like scotch anyway. “And besides, you wanted me docile, didn't you?”

“And how will _that_ make you docile? Last time I saw you drunk, you destroyed half your home.”

_True._

“Well, it makes me _friendlier_ then.”

“ _And_ you nearly killed your best friend.”

Tony coughed. “That's not fair,” he pointed, “that was imminent-death coping and you –”

She raised a single eyebrow. Tony plugged his statement with a long, healthy gulp.

“...and this time is – uh, well, _less_ imminent. Maybe.”

She looked about to respond, but seemed to think better of it, seeing that her reasoning would only evoke Tony's endless arsenal of self-rationalizing excuses. Natasha gave him one last look before discarding him for a seat by the window. He didn't blame her. Pepper still held the highest patience-score on that battlefield.

Tony sniffed, dropping languidly onto the couch across from her. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, appraising her through it.

Natasha Romanoff. Earth's finest secret intelligence agent and now his partner tribute in this glittery shit-hole. Despite her stifling lack of merriment, Tony honestly couldn't think of a better person to be paired with. She was intelligent, deadly, agile, duplicitous as a fox... The list went on. He didn't know her all that well on a personal basis, despite how often they'd worked together. She seemed to prefer it that way. He knew from SHIELDs database profiles (which, yes, he often took the liberty of hacking) that she had an expectedly jaded history. He wasn't about to pry directly though. They could leave each other to their own demons on that note.

They were team-mates, certainly. Friends? If he squinted. More than colleagues anyway.

Still.

_'There can be only one victor.'_

The reaper's words hung like a steel mallet in his throat.

It was true, Tony thought. If they couldn't find a way to stop the Capitol before the Games started, this little partnership was as good as void. Sure, she would have his back at the beginning, a well-toned tank kicking alien ass by his side, 'Avengers-4-Ever' and all that so long as there were other tributes to take out. But what about after that? What if, by some miraculous twist of fate, they really _did_ manage to survive until the end – what then? Would he be ready to just turn around and...

 _God,_ what was he even _thinking_ when he volunteered for this gig?

Of _course_ Natasha would be his rival. He'd known that, even at the reaping. And yet it was only now, swirling in the actual, undeniable reality of this hellish world, did he truly realize what it was he would have to do to. What it would _take_ for him to win the Games.

He would have to kill his own partner.

A cold breath ran up through Tony's spine, making his headache pound all the more viciously.

Natasha's head lifted ever so slightly then, fingers curled loosely about her cheek, her green eyes lost in some faraway cavern of thought, probably weighing the same morbid ones as him. Asking herself quietly– was _she_ ready for a new stain?

Tony took a last heavy swig then, draining his glass completely and letting the cold burn work its way down his throat.

Well, he just hoped they could find a way to stop the Capitol before the Games begun, because Tony sure didn't want to know the answer to _that_ question.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *phew!* They finally made it! *confetti!* Hope you weren't expecting the same old Capitol heheh...  
> Seriously though, writing fanfiction at the same time as final papers should be considered an Olympic sport @.@  
> But yes! Sorry no Loki this chapter but he'll be back next week with all his beautiful issues. Thanks for hanging in! Things will be picking up speed soon, I promise! : )


	5. The Fault

 

 

Loki drifted, his head resting softly on his palm as the crackling city passed in blurs of giddy colours and shapes. His reflection seemed lifeless amidst it, blanched against the pulsing hues behind.

_'How?'_

After arriving in the docks, their escort had led them through the city to the station, the swarms of noise and turbulence nearly suffocating after a sleepless night in solitude. She said it would be a few hours travel to the Capitol's centre, so he had been left to his own for a time while Sif occupied the compartment over.

She would not so much as look at him.

' _How could you?_ '

At least the bruises were beginning to yellow. He'd expected a lot worse, really.

All though _'worse'_ was a titch arbitrary as of late.

He sighed, travelling inwards then, craving the more subtle, weightless realms of his body. The rapid motion below him made it difficult to ground himself, but he tried regardless. Aside from the train's steady hum along the tracks, his breathing was the only sound in the room. His chest responded to the rhythmic call of his core as he traced the energy channels through his abdomen, his chest, his throat, his arms and hands – interweaving their flow with the external currents around him.

_In, through, out._

_Breathe._

It was only by the hem of Loki's magic that he survived long enough for Thor's reason to overtake his fury. The balcony had crumbled in ruin, the hallways a graveyard of alabaster and marble before Thor realized that harming Loki would be hazardous to Asgard's safety. Instead, he had his brother thrown into a cell until the time he would be taken away, more likely for his own protection than Thor's.

_In. Breathe. Out._

There were no words exchanged between the brothers when the Capitol came to collect Loki and Sif the next morning. Thor's face was a mask of stone as he removed his brother's shackles, never wavering even as he embraced Sif, wishing her courage and strength in the coming trials. No farewells or sentiments of loss were made to the younger brother as he was lifted into the sky, leaving Asgard twice-removed of its King. The exchange was consummated now, and whether his brother wanted it or not, the nine realms and all of their calamities had fallen directly to Thor.

_All because Loki desired a throne._

Loki smiled, closing his eyes as the phrase washed over him.

It had a nice ring to it. Easy. Palatable. Comfortable in the way people look for a natural order in things. Why question anything so inherently obvious?

It was always simpler to see the world as a series of facts, rather than ambiguous half-blends of truth and perception. Reality itself was far too liquid, too chaotic. People crave finality and thus their lives becomes an endless toil of confirming and reaffirming what they see as true.

For example –

Odin was dead.

Fact.

And to solidify this fact, they would carve a great monolith in his image, its gaze ever watchful over the realm as it joined the frozen ranks of his forefathers, kings upon kings upon stones upon stones. With no body to offer a proper ship's burial, they would create a tumulus mound in the golden fields, burning his belongings, his personal slaves and a lavish feast in his honour. Along with enough gold to service him in the afterlife, their ashes would be buried deep beneath the ground, crowned by a noble rock. Upon it, they would carve poems and songs to commemorate his reign, immortalizing him through stanzas and rhyme that would be repeated in the great halls of Valhalla for millienia to come.

Only then, with irrefutable evidence, will their mourning commence.

Great Odin – God of courage and victory, they will say – _father of goodness and light_.

And after everything – the burnings, the wake, the memorials – they will still want to know _how_ it happened – how he died. A warrior's death 'neath the wailing, clashing of swords, they will sing. That sounds right, they will agree.

But nobody will ask why. Because they already know, _why_.

Loki.

Of course.

Sound and simple.

Because _Loki,_ for all his greed and spite, would always be the fault in the fold, the inversion of his brother's light. A man who would snuff out the sun simply for shining too bright. Chaos clung to him like death-knells to a plague and nothing, no punishment, no life-long incarceration, was ever going to change that.

Loki was to blame because _that_ was his intrinsic state of being. That was the _fact_ of Loki.

And he would accept it because that's what the kingdom needed – what _Thor_ needed. A sinister figure upon which they could burden their scorn and grief and fury for the loss of their precious monarch, never minding that his debauched rule would have seen them all _dead_ , contently writhing in a burning, blackened kingdom because they were too blind to see that the man they worshipped was nothing but a _wretched corpse of a_ _king!_

_'You're a fool.'_

The window shattered in a flurry of wind and glass as Loki's fist crashed blindly through, his hair lashing around him as he realized with a surge of horror – _he wasn't breathing._

He jerked back from the howling exposure, palm grinding to his chest as he willed his lungs to drink, to take, to expand with life.

He shut his eyes again, steadying himself to the pulse, working inwards until he could feel the coil slowly release within his chest, permitting a cold rush of air as he swallowed gratefully in deep, ravenous gulps. He leaned back his head, letting its serum sate the stinging thirst in his veins.

It was only when the last few tremblings vanished did Loki manage to relax, exhausted as he lay back into the alcove's mound of cushions. After a moment he held up his hand, appraising the bloody mar of his knuckles.

It was no use.

The wind continued to howl throughout the compartment, swirling loose objects around him as he breathed quietly, calmly now. He lay his hand beside him, letting the fabric suck the blood from his skin.

There was no point ruminating on it now. The past was done and the future was oncoming, rising like a massive wave in Loki's midst. Under the galaxy's newest threat, Thor would undoubtedly protect Asgard by any means necessary. _Any_ means. Even if that meant the fall of his final breath.

And Loki could not allow that. Not anymore.

His brother was many things – many _infuriating_ things – and yet it was clearer to him, now more than ever, that losing Thor was not an option.

He knew his brother would not forgive him after this. Not even if Loki succeeded in saving Asgard. How could he? Thor would spend the rest of his life despising his brother from the depth of his being, resenting every thought, ever flickering memory which Loki's image ghosted through. Odin may well be dead, but his spite would live stubbornly on, passed down through the eyes of his one, true son. Upon his return, Loki would be once again at their mercy. _If_ there was any mercy left.

But Loki could live with that, so long as Thor did.

So long as Thor lived.

And so, if he wished to protect _anyone_ , let alone the last person he truly cared about, he would have to focus all his energies on the coming trials, pushing everything else down deep and away, save for a few simple truths –

Odin was dead, his mother was dead, his brother was king, and Loki was a criminal of highest treason, his sentence frozen only on interest of the realm's imminent destruction.

And for now, those were the only facts that mattered.

The train slowed and lurched to a halt as Loki strained to sit upright again. He had not noticed before, but the external surroundings had become even grander and more opulent in their decorations.

“This way, plea- _Oh my heavens! What – what did you do to the window?_ ”

Their lavender-clad escort, whose name he had not bothered to remember, now stood gawking from the doorway. He did not move or lift his gaze to her. This peacock of a woman had been harping him with strings of orders and beautician advice since his arrival, neither of which Loki had use or patience for. Killing her outright would be impractical for the time being, so he had taken to ignoring her or, when absolutely necessary, responding in his own time. 

“I'll have you know this is a _civilized_ society,” she huffed, “and we will _not_ tolerate brutish behaviour here. If you cannot refrain from damaging our transit services I will have to put you under constant supervision, _is that clear?_ ”

She may well have been a fly on the wall for all the notice Loki gave her. He heard a foot tapping as she tsked loudly, “Well, never mind now. Come along.”

After a few lingering moments he rose to his feet and followed her bustling, purple dress into the next carriage where Sif already stood waiting. Beside two tall Asgardians, their escort was no more than a tinselled dwarf.

“Sif,” he nodded, taking his place by her side.

She gave no response, only staring fiercely ahead.

You could always tell a warrior from the way their blood warmed to the prospect of battle, how it changed the way their bodies filled a space with a wide, demanding girth. To fight was not just a practical necessity for the warrior Aesir; it was a ravenous need – and now, after such an arduous wait, Sif's skin all but radiated with it. With her dark, bountiful hair drawn back in a tight cascade and the bright armour over her arms and torso, all curves and sharp edges, polished to perfection – she was ripe for the arena. Like him, she had been allowed no weapons, though it made little difference. Sif was as deadly as a tigress, blade or no blade, and anyone who failed to see that would pay with no less than their lives.

Loki had long learned not to underestimate the woman.

“Now,” said their escort, a delicate hand poised over the door, “take a deep breath and don't. forget. to. _smile_!”

The noise broke over them like a wave as they stepped from the train, the square rolling and churning with people, whistling and waving flags, scrambling to get a closer look at the two Asgardians.

The commotion made Loki stiffen.

It was so alien, he realized as the two guards corralled them through the hysteria. The sound of cheering, the frenzied roar of adoration – though not in itself, of course. Loki had witnessed plenty of second-hand glory in his brother's wake as they strode through the winding streets of Asgard, following some conquest or other, Thor's fist pumping in time to their chants. No, the reception itself was familiar – It was only strange because, this time, Thor wasn't there.

By his side, Sif only looked mildly perturbed by it all, more likely from pent up energy than anything else. Loki found it almost disturbing, but then, perhaps not entirely unpleasant.

They made their way through the plaza, blinded by the lightning flashes of small, black devices as hungry hands reached out to them. A young girl even came close enough to grab his sleeve before she was pulled away. He watched her pink flag bobbing with delight as it disappeared into the crowd.

Asgard certainly had its own tradition of violent competitions, warriors gathered to compete before the king to demonstrate their skills in combat. Children were by no means barred from attending either. It was better to accustom them at a young age, not only to the techniques but also the dire consequences of failure. The people here, however, looked nothing like the battle-worn warriors of Asgard. Their culture favoured lace over leather, smooth skin over battle-scars, and an assortment of strange gadgets over any kind of weapons that he could see, save what the guards carried. The Capitol seemed to lust for the thrill of battle, and yet none of them looked to have held a sword in their lives. What was the point, then? How could you judge the valour and honour of a fight if you had never tasted the steel of it yourself? And _this_ was the great power which loomed over Asgard and the nine realms?

_Disgusting._

Loki would be no more than a baseless entertainer, brawling before a superficial, empty-headed audience.

He felt a sudden repulsion towards the crowd _._

After what seemed an eternity, they managed to break away from the screaming throng after passing through a barrier of tall golden gates. There were still more on the far side, though they were all official-looking and too busy preparing for the Games to pay them much mind.

“Your people are quite boisterous,” Sif said in a way that did not sound like a compliment. She was eyeing the decorations around them as a noble would a pigsty.

Their escort shuffled like a puffed pigeon before them, her bulbous bun of hair bobbing as she went.

“Oh yes, they are _quite_ excited. We look forward to this every year,” she confirmed over her shoulder. “You two could stand to be a bit more receptive though. Come now, lets see those pearls –” she demonstrated for them. They replied with doubly blank expressions.

“It doesn't _hurt_ , you know,” she admonished, turning away. “Honestly, you tributes lack the simplest graces... As they say, a smile is the first step to a good day; they are the chimneys to our souls and the windows to our hearts!”

“I'll make a window to _your_ heart,” Sif growled under her breath.

The woman had not heard but it made Loki smirk anyway. It was always a treat to see Sif's venom cast on someone besides himself. Her tongue rivalled his own for such slick inclinations, and he admired her deeply for it, though he knew its sting well enough.

There was still something else bothering him though, and he finally confirmed it when he looked skywards. Though half a day had past and the sky was clearly dimming, the sun had not changed its position, still sitting directly above them. Now however, the darker sphere hung broadly in front, it's dark surface silhouetted by murky light.

 _So_ – a static sun then.

This landscape is as queer as its people, he thought, and the sooner he could win these Games and leave the better. Still, he could not quite contain his curiosity as he asked,

“Your sun is fake, is it not?”

Their escort scoffed. “Oh no, I can assure you – it's _very_ real,” she said proudly. “It once belonged to the Fytal galaxy but we use it now. We had to condense it a bit, of course, teach it a few new tricks, but it serves us well. Every thousand years or so we get a new one,” she shrugged, as if talking about no more than a pair of boots. He must have had an odd look about his face then, as she took a great deal of mirth from it.

“Oh my! _You precious_ – I understand,” she cooed. “Our technology must be _very_ humbling for you,” and oh if that comment did not sorely merit the back of his hand. This woman's head would make a fine trophy upon his return he decided.

And yet, even with such advanced technology – harnessing an entire star? For the sake of living inside a ship? It seemed an awful lot of trouble.

If they had truly conquered so many planets as their supposed 'reputation' would suggest, why not inhabit them? Why maintain a nomadic lifestyle – roving the universe and hosting these ridiculous games? Unless there was something else keeping them moving...

They reached an aggressively tall, ornate building then, with two crisply dressed bellmen positioned before each door.

“This is not your people's true home, is it,” he said, more as a statement than a question. She paused before leading them in.

“No,” she said slowly, then continued her pace.

The lobby they entered was as grand as its exterior, lavished with tall windows, brightly polished floors and an abundance of uniformed men and women gliding about their duties. It all but glistened with prestige. She took them up to a reception desk where their names were signed onto a digital screen.

“And what happened to it?” He asked, not with concern, only morbid curiosity.

“It ran out,” she said simply, her shoulders a hard line. When she turned back to face him the look on her face was more layered than even Loki could read and he suddenly had the oddest sensation of looking through smoke.

_Had her skin just...?_

“Luckily, the universe has many more to offer,” she said quietly, turning away. Loki was still staring curiously after her as she ushered them over to a tall, glass elevator. They followed her in and as they rose, an astounding view of the city unravelled before them. Vast red banners and flags hung from buildings and across the square below, with massive screens drifting amidst them like metallic clouds, paying homage to past victors and skirmishes. Compared to the immense scene beyond, their lift felt rather tight and confining.

“Tomorrow you will meet your stylist,” the woman chirped, rapidly fingering the screen of her hand-held device. “He's nearly finished designing your looks for the opening ceremonies and there's still so much to do. _Lots to improve_ ,” her eyes flitted over him. “They're wonderful people, barbers. You'll adore him, he's a wizard with scissors.”

Loki's lip twitched. Sif simply looked bored.

“And of course there's the matter of your _clothes_ – we'll need to make final fittings for your wardro-”

“That _won't_ be necessary,” Loki cut her off, folding his arms. “The clothing I have will suffice.” He was still wearing the green and gold armour from his fight with Thor, and though the leather had torn in places and the vambraces were a bit scuffed, there was nothing he saw worth changing.

“Oh but you must,” she said slowly, piercing him with a long, lucid look. “It is essential to your public-image.”

“My image is _perfectly_ adequate,” he reproached, eyeing her exorbitantly ruffled dress, “ _without_ your consultation.”

Her head tilted coyly to the side then, as she gave him her full attention. Her mouth formed a lazy grin. “I assume you are here to win, _Mr. Odinson_ , and if you want any hope of doing so I'd suggest you start heeding my advice.”

A sharp twinge caught in Loki's chest, his semblance suddenly rigid.

Sif stiffened, sensing the change, her eyes darting rapidly between the two.

Loki raised his full height over the Capitol woman, his shadow dark and heavy across her face. “The only _heed_ I shall take,” he hissed quietly, “will be to your hapless screams as I lacerate the _organs_ from your stomach _if you make but one more demand of me._ ” Magic crackled through his fingers as he decided then – he'd had more than enough of this woman.

Her lips parted slightly before pursing back into a thin smile. “That may be... _unwise_ ,” she purred up to his face, “if you still wish to participate in the Games.”

He continued to glower down at her, his fingers itching to wrap themselves around her powdered little neck, to squeeze the air from her unworthy lungs.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened to their floor. No one moved.

The woman put her gadget away then, sighing loudly. “You think you are the first powerful, self-absorbed tribute I have had to deal with?” she asked sourly. “I have corralled hundreds of you heathens through these ceremonies, breaking your worthless hides into every one of the Capitol's expectations and demands. You all crow the same hot-headed defiance in the beginning, but that will all fall away within two steps of the arena. Believe me, I have watched giants _cowering_ in their own defecation.” She licked her oiled lips. “In short, _Mr. Odinson_ , you have no agency here. No autonomy, no power – only the precious delusion of your former, glorified self,” her mouth hovered open for a moment, suckling the air, “which I will _happily_ strip you of myself, if I must.”

Loki's eyes flared. “I am a _God_.”

“No,” she smiled. “You are a sacrificial _lamb_.”

The glass walls flashed a deep shade of green as sparks skittered across Loki's skin, his body glowing with unmitigated malice.

Her eyes pooled with boredom. “Let me tell you _exactly_ how the next few days will go,” she instructed, slow and articulate. “I tell you what to do, and you will do it. I tell you what to wear, and you will _wear it._ ” She traced her finger over his chest, allowing a spark to flit over it. “And all the while, you will bear yourself,” she whispered up to his ear, “ _mildly._ ”

He lunged for the woman's throat just as Sif swung herself between them, shoving a vambrace to his chest and walling the momentum of his onslaught. He snarled, jerking against her as she pushed him to the glass, her full weight pressed against him as he grabbed her by the wrists, crushing the metal to her flesh. He wanted her to scream, to gasp under his grip, but she offered nothing, their bodies locked in sharp tension as they stood trembling, neither relenting an inch to the other. The look she gave him then was of pure, undiluted hatred, and Loki felt a shiver of excitement run through him.

It was not until this moment, with her eyes so tightly snared with his, that Loki could see the full depth of liquid rage which brimmed behind them, yearning for his blood, informing him that if he took but one step further, she would spill it all right then and there.

He nearly squirmed with delight.

The silence stretched long and thick between them, the thrum of power resonating like waves between their rigid bodies. Loki leaned in, taking in her musk, her skin. His eyes darkened. It would take so little just to...

_But no._

He was losing himself.

Sif was right to stop him. He had to calm down. He had to _think_.

Satisfying as it would be to rampage through the Capitol, slathering its streets with colourful corpses – Asgard was in too precarious a position. He had neither the knowledge nor the instruments to carry out a wide-scale attack, not without eliciting disastrous repercussions. Now was not the time. He would have to wait. Draw back with an actual plan.

He let his shoulders lower.

Behind Sif, Loki saw the woman smirk, hip jutting victoriously to the side as she slipped a small, silver object into her purse.

And there it was again. That feeling that he was looking through something fluid – something intangible.

He blinked.

No. It was no failure of vision. He had surely seen it.

For just the briefest moment, her entire body had shivered out of focus, like a smooth pond surface suddenly disturbed. Her form was no illusion though, as he could clearly feel her presence in the room. She was certainly there, and yet somehow not... entirely.

“Your room,” she nodded, indicating the still open door.

Loki continued to seethe at her, his heart beating savagely against his chest.

“ _Loki._ ” It was the first word Sif had spoken directly to him since his reveal in Asgard, and its warning brimmed now with a low, subliminal fury.

He returned his gaze to hers, folding himself back within its fiery depths. He wanted to drink from it, or smother it beneath him. Every inch of the woman seemed to mock him, from her taught, curving skin, her neck, the twisted bloom of her lips. He longed to bore into them, searing flesh and breath and bone with the same vicious contempt which those eyes branded into him.

It was a long while before he could pull himself away.

He let his hands fall away then, letting the tension abate, his spine straighten. After a long moment, Sif lowered her arm from his chest, stepping back warily.

The Capitol thought him trapped, he realized – cornered and obedient, when in truth they had just dropped a hungry viper into a pit of rodents.

 _There will be a way_ , he promised himself, and a most gratifying time, when his full wrath would become known to these people, and they would learn, in the slowest, cruelest way, how merciless a _God_ can be. He would not simply win their Games. He would _destroy_ them.

Loki took a deep, slow breath, morphing his rage into an image of stone composure as he recalled his magic, its lucid tendrils receding quietly under his skin.

He would have to wait for the right moment, for their weakness to surface in careless confidence, as secrets often do when one waited in the shadows long enough. And so, for now, he would subjugate to the Capitol's restrictions, commending himself to the will of this infernal woman and her ceremonies. It was infuriating beyond words but to lash out now would only prove foolish and wasteful of future opportunity.

He bestowed one last contemptuous look on the woman before turning on his heel and exiting the lift. Sif followed without a word. Their escort smirked, satisfied. “Tomorrow then,” she said as the door closed before her, confining Loki to his next prison.

If only for the next little while then, he would bend to their demands– assuming yet another mask, another role, condensing every ounce of acrid fury in a tight, burrowed hole within him, his surface chiseled to a frozen slate of perfection.

If that's what it took to crush them, so be it.

Let the Games begin.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah, sorry this took so long T_T I hope you enjoyed it though! And don't worry, this won't be the last you hear of big daddy Odin.
> 
> My exams are going to be swamping me for the next few weeks, so the next chapter will be a bit slow coming... but once they're done I'll be on this baby like jam on toast~ mmmm.
> 
> Comments are my rocket fuel so let me know what you think! Cheers ~ :)
> 
> Also - gold star cookies to the first person to find the Coriolanus reference.


	6. In Which Tony Bargains for his Facial Hair

 

 

 

Yeah, _NO_.

“I don't care _what_ you threaten me with, I am _not_ letting you shave a god damn crop circle on my face!”

“But Tony,” Vibius whined, circling him like a well-plumed vulture. “You want to make a statement for your first appearance, don't you?”

“I _am_ making a statement, and that's keep your prissy little hands off my facial hair!”

Tony was currently wrapped in a black smock, trying to ward off his latest oppressor of the hour – an ice-blonde hair stylist with a penchant for swirly patterns and eye-lash extensions. The man's arms crossed in agitation as he waited for Tony to take his seat again. Tony made a face which showed exactly how soon _that_ was happening.

Instead, he stood up and strode over to the kitchen area, snatching a mug of coffee from the counter and downing it in one large swig. He filled it again, sipping it casually, taking every moment he could before turning back to the living room battlefield.

He sighed inwardly. _Count your blessings, Tony. At least there's coffee._

Actually, there were a lot of earth-y things on hand, to his continual surprise. For an alien civilization who'd only just arrived in the galaxy, they sure knew a lot about the how-tos and creature comforts of the locals. Tony had to fight daily not to simply drown himself in their apartment's well-stocked liquor cabinet. Not that he was still a raging alcoholic (those days were thankfully far and gone), but Tony had a knack for wanting things most when they were least appropriate. The Capitol had made certain with utmost priority that all their consumable needs were met and then some. All in all, the amount of effort the Capitol had put in to making them feel comfortable was beyond try-hard, it was downright surreal.

When Tony and Natasha arrived, they had found their apartment to be an exact hybrid replica of their two homes. From the Egyptian silk bedsheets down to the last forgotten sock under the bed, their rooms were spitting images of the ones they'd just left behind. The living room and kitchen area seemed to be a mesh of the two, filled with Tony's high tech appliances and Natasha's ballet-centric art deco. The only thing missing was, to Tony's great disappointment, any sign of his shop.

The whole setup was obviously meant to make them feel at home but Tony just found it all immensely unsettling, if not entirely impossible. When he asked how they'd built such an elaborate facade with only a day's notice, Vibius just responded as he did with most of Tony's non-Games related questions – with a smile and a consoling pat.

And they wondered why Tony was so volatile lately.

Over the last few days, Tony's body had been subjected to more pressing, prodding, plucking and polishing than he cared to remember, leaving his skin glistening and stinging all over. With back-to-back appointments and fittings, there was hardly a moments rest before another beautician walked in, passing him off like a dress-me-up rag doll to the next pair of clippers or scissors.

His protests, which he made a point of voicing in loud and frequent intervals, had an almost zero success rate, only awarding him with increasingly lethal threats. He knew he was only inches away from being simply strapped down and gagged. Like that was going to stop him though. When it came to personal quaffing, _Tony_ made the calls (and occasionally Pepper), _not_ the Tate Modern freak-brigade.

And he certainly wasn't suffering alone.

Natasha had all but given up on reprimanding him, too busy with her own horde of beauticians to keep his mouth in check. She stood rigid now, arms raised in mock-flight, trying to avoid her tailor's needle as it wove in and out the side of her long, voluptuous dress. Black fabric pooled around her feet while red, silk tendrils draped down her front like webs. Latched and protruding from the dress's back were four pairs of lank, black-spined appendages, giving her the appearance of a beautiful but deadly arachnid. Her face was chiseled blank, but Tony could tell even her patience was starting to wear thin.

“You are making our jobs _very_ difficult,” Vibius said crossly, shaking his head as Tony returned, mug in hand. It was one of his old favourites, some graduate gift with his old university's insignia on it. Well, a copy of it anyway.

“At least it's an even trade then,” Tony sneered, taking another sip.

Vibius sighed, rubbing his temples. “Tony, I really don't want to have to call the guards in again so can you please, for once, just do as your told? As much as you may think I'm here to torture you, that's not my intent. I'm on your side. I'm doing this for _you._ ”

“Really? 'Cause I get the impression _your_ interests are being catered to a lot more than mine right now.” Tony took another lengthy tour of the living room, scrutinizing a little wooden doll-inside-a-doll toy on the shelf. Must have been Natasha's.

“Your appearance is in _both_ of our interests, Tony,” he sighed. The stylist scoffed and Vibius cast him an apologetic look. “You want to win, I want you to win. And to do that, you're going to need sponsors.”

“ _Sponsors_ ,” Tony repeated without looking at him, low and dubious.

“Yes, s _ponsors_ ,” Vibius nodded, moving in. “They are the Capitol's wealthy spectators who have _great_ influence over the results of the Games. If they like a tribute enough, they will pay for gifts to be sent in during the match.” He made a parachute-like motion with his hand. Tony was still investigating the doll so Vibius continued. “Believe me Tony, when you're out in the arena and your life is riding on a drink of water or a vaccine, they're the ones you're going to need most. They're the ones you need to sway and no one will be sending you _anything_ if you don't make a good impression in the opening ceremonies,” he finished sternly.

 _That_ got his attention. Tony swivelled around, still digesting that last bit. “Wait – hold on so you're saying you can actually _buy_ stuff to help you win? With money?” He almost laughed. “Why didn't you say so – I'll get myself a tank if it comes with a price tag, just say how much.”

Vibius coughed, then chuckled for long time. “ _Oh no, no, no._ Only members of the Capitol can provide gifts I'm afraid.” Tony visibly deflated. “We wouldn't want any unfair advantages from the outside,”he explained, placing his hands on the back of Tony's chair. “You'll just have to learn to be likeable.”

Tony huffed. “I am likeable.”

“I am not sure you know what that means,” said Vibius. “Now _sit_.”

Tony closed his eyes, inhaling slowly. Of course. Nothing could be that easy, could it? This shit-show was going to be more difficult than even his pessimistic mind had conjured it to be.

He wondered then if his past enemies really were somewhere down in hell, scheming the most torturous, drawn-out way for Tony Stark to meet his end. If they were, they'd sure smoked a potent bowl over this one.

Yes, the ceremony preparations were excruciating. And yet, they weren't even the worst part. The _worst_ part was, that even after all this ridiculous glitzing and glamouring, the never-ending makeovers and fittings, they were still nowhere closer to finding out how to take down the Capitol. Unless Vibius was escorting them to a nearby parlour, they were forbidden from leaving the apartment. A pair of hefty looking guards and a maze of surveillance cameras were positioned outside their door at all times to ensure that. Of course, Natasha could easily find a way to sneak by them. But as of now, their constant onslaught of visitors and appointments would have revealed her absence immediately. Even at night they had been checked upon regularly. It was too risky to be snooping around now, and so they decided their best bet was to wait until the ceremonies began. Use the hype and chaos of the celebrations to explore unnoticed, to ask questions and take divergences. And so for the moment, they would remain contained.

Not to mention – they now had to come up with an entirely new plan, the first one having just blown up in their faces.

It had only taken Tony a few minutes unsupervised to realize that their transmitters were not making it back to SHIELD headquarters. Something was interfering with the correspondence signal, and so nothing they'd captured since their arrival had made it through.

They were completely cut off.

And so now, even if they managed to temporarily disable the Capitol's weaponry, there was no way of letting Fury know when to retaliate. Or even prepare. Unless they also figured out how to commandeer the Capitol's communications systems ahead of time – without being traced, or simultaneously warding off slews of Capitol soldiers...

No. There were too many holes for things to go wrong. Too many ifs. It pained Tony beyond anything but he had to face it. They could no longer rely on external forces. Whatever was going to take down the Capitol, would now have to come from within the Capitol itself.

And that meant getting right to the heart of things – or more specifically, the power core of things.

Power. More energy, more power. _More coffee_. Yes.

Tony made another breakaway for the kitchen, ignoring how his hands were already shaking from over-caffeination. He needed to be over-something right now. He felt more than a few unimpressed eyes on his back but he ignored those too.

Of course, even if they did manage to break away without being discovered, Tony wasn't sure they would even find anything. The place was _huge_. Locating the ship's central power system would be like finding a needle in a rainbow haystack. And even _then_ , even if they did manage to find it – would Tony be able to do anything? Who knew what kind of power source they drew on – chemical fuel? Nuclear fission? Fusion? Or something else entirely? Tony may well be a weapons expert but they hadn't exactly covered alien-tech 101 at MIT. He could improvise, certainly, but nothing was ensured. Nothing was stable.

And if all that wasn't bad enough, they could now wish any notion of an extraction plan a sweet, tearful goodbye.

They were, in every way, alone.

Tony buried his head in his hands, rubbing the nooks between his eyes until stars appeared behind his eyelids. Things _really_ could not get any worse.

He faced the living room once again, mustering the last of his faculties as he charged back in.

After another long and arduous argument, in which Tony mostly yelled and Vibius made high-pitched threats, Tony won his first small victory. Vibius promised not to let the barber touch his goatee so long as he let him trim his hair to a tolerable length. It was the best compromise he was going to get so he took it.

Following yet another hour of primping and preening and some debate on how to keep Natasha's dress legs from smacking her in the face every time she turned left, the door to the apartment burst open. Like an exotic winged bird from the jungle, a bright red and golden outfit flew into the room, followed by the designer carrying it.

“It is finished!” came the introduction. A sleeve was brandished forward as if enquiring for applause. “The last adjustments were tight but – ah! They are done and I am delighted with the results!”

The suit, if you could call it that, was unlike anything Tony had seen before. While its general cut nodded towards a formal look, the absurd accentuation and expansion of certain areas gave it a largely theatrical presence. With its sharply pointed lapels, the obtusely large roundness of the shoulders and the mechanical-esque pattern of red and gold down the front and legs, it almost reminded Tony of –

“I call it – Iron Man à la Capitol!” proclaimed the designer. His grin beamed brighter than a Christmas tree.

Tony's jaw dropped in pure, unmitigated horror.

“I am _not_ wearing that,” he said immediately. He took a massive step back, feeling his head swim like the whole apartment had just taken a swan dive off the building. Hold the phone. Was this canary costume supposed to be... for _him?_ – was he seriously expected to wear this in front of thousands – if not millions – of spectators? Paraded around like a jolly float Santa? The thought alone made his stomach heave and he suddenly had the urge to wash his hands of this whole Capitol business right then and there. Forget it. This was too much. Tony could build advanced weaponry suits, fight aliens and tally with the worst politicians till kingdom come, but this was entirely crossing the line. That Tony Stark should be forced to wear something so garishly hideous for the amusement of a whimsical alien race was beyond anything he could self-respectively bear. And damn well, they would know it, too.

And yet in the face of such atrocity, he could hardly muster a sentence.

There was a collective motion of eye-rolling in the room as he took another large step back.

“I'm _not_ ,” he said again.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaah, Tony baby...
> 
> FFFFFFFF So yes, sorry about the long absence! Exams and school are finally done and I'm back to the keyboard HOOHAW :)  
> Short chapter for now, but the next will be much longer (and coming up soon)! Fret not, the tributes are on their way ; ) along with a certain mischievous god~ Cheers!


	7. Enter The Tributes

 

 

Tony yanked at the silky fabric around his wrists, attempting with little success to flatten the obnoxiously large cuffs.

“Keep at it, Tony. It almost looks good now,” said Natasha dryly, nudging a spider leg from her face. She had a glower about her that Tony, given any other situation, would have loved to give a wide and cautious girth. But as of now, standing in a vast loading area waiting to be ushered out into a sea of screaming fans, he had little choice but to stick around.

Tony huffed, forcing his hands to his side. “I just don't see how any of this is going to work,” he grumbled, eyeing the horses around them with a touch of wariness. The large beasts hoofed at the ground, swishing their dark manes against their harnesses. “Honestly, how am I supposed to get sponsors when I look like a god damn circus attraction?” He was starting to feel nauseous.

Natasha ignored him.

“ _Unbelievable,_ ” he muttered, probably for the eighteenth time that day. “I look like a metro Ronald Mcdonald.”

Again, no response. He should probably just shut up then.

Thank god the others weren't there to see him now. Steve especially. Tony could never make another spangly suit remark again. Not after this.

Tony looked his partner over, scrutinizing her the same way he did his more complicated shop projects. Natasha had made zero complaints since their arrival, and it made him wonder if she was used to wearing ridiculous disguises for her missions. He had a sudden flashback to some spy comedy movie he watched once. Hungover. Pistachio disguisey? He felt a sudden empathy with the lead and his clownish outfits. The guy was dedicated, at least. He tried to picture Natasha's wardrobe filled with the same outlandish costumes and it just made his head hurt.

Tony peered at her suspiciously. “You're too quiet. It's freaking me out.”

Her eyes roved across the hall, taking in the stir of Capitol workers, the cusp of conversations as they buzzed this way and that. “I'm quiet because I'm listening,” she said.

The hall bustled with energy as the final preparations for the opening ceremonies were made all around them. Nearby, Vibius was having an animated discussion with another affluent looking man in a purple suit. He gave a wink when he caught Tony looking over. Tony responded with his best sneer. He was sure if fell flat though, like anything he did in this suit.

None of the other tributes had arrived yet but their chariots, nine in total, stood poised at the ready, proud and gleaming behind their black, plumed steeds. They came in varying sizes. Some, Tony noticed, were concerningly larger. Dressed with all the pomposity befitting a Roman gladiator, the chariots promised one hell of an opening act. Tony could already hear the feverish buzz of crowds awaiting outside.

As he listened, Tony felt a trickle of nervousness run through him.

Not that crowds were intimidating to Tony. Not at all. If anything, they were his area of expertise, his raison d'etre even. He knew how to work an audience better than his own toaster oven (which okay, was not very well, but still).

So no, it was not the crowd itself twisting a cold, hard knot in Tony's stomach, it was that _that_ undeniable sound meant, in only a few minutes more, the Games would begin and he would finally meet his rival tributes. The ones he would have to...

But no – he was getting ahead of himself. He had to stay on track.

_Remember the plan, Tony._

If this ship functioned anything like most, it would have a core power system. Right now their goal was to find out what is was, where it was and how to get to it. And to do this, they both agreed it would be ideal to increase their number of eyes.

And if those eyes were coming from anywhere, it would be Asgard.

Of course, neither Tony or Natasha were familiar with Asgard's high league of 'warriors', but they both agreed there was a high chance that Thor himself would have volunteered for the Games, given the stakes. The idea of facing off against the thunder god without his Iron-Man suit made Tony more than a little concerned, but he couldn't deny the man would make a considerable ally in the mean time. If so, they would find a way to speak to him in private, run him up to speed on their plans and get him on board, limited as they were.

Then, well, then they'd just have to see.

Tony took a sharp jab from Natasha then, shaking him to attention. She indicated to the far end of the hall where a very tall, blue pair and another escort had just walked in. Tony squinted over at them, wondering at first if they were wearing full body suits. He realized as they approached – the colour was from their skin. Tony's mouth gaped.

The giants were easily twelve feet tall, with hairless heads and fiercely red eyes that seemed to glow in the hall's scattered lighting. They wore very little, decorated with frosted chains and a smattering of blue and silver fabric draped across their loins and chests.

As they neared, Tony felt his entire body stiffen. Yeah, make that fifteen feet. Fifteen feet of pure blue, crush-your-skull-to-a-pulp muscle.

The alien pair looked over to them. Or, down at them, really. Their attention lasted a full three seconds before fizzling out, moving onward to their selected chariots. They said nothing but Tony could read that look well enough.

 _Ants_ , they said.

The next pair arrived before Tony could fully recover himself. The woman, whose womanliness was exceedingly evident by her complete lack of clothing, had a steamy haze about her. She wore a complexion of dusty orange, with ram-like horns spiralling off her forehead and a landscape of sharp, craggy spines all down her body. Behind her, the ground took scorch marks where she stepped, while beside her, her escort was carrying something that looked suspiciously like a fire extinguisher.

Towering on her other side – not quite as tall as the blue couple, but considerably wider and rounder in shape – was her male counterpart. His rugged skin looked like it hadn't seen water in years, though it seemed thick enough to withstand a fair amount of bulldozing. More like a boulder than a man.

The rest consecutively followed, meriting no less awe and trepidation upon each new arrival. The outlandishly colourful and glitzy costumes they wore only added to the spectacle of it all, and Tony had to continually pinch himself for fear of forgetting to breathe. He had to fight off the urge to sit down again.

Out next came a small and impish looking couple, probably only reaching Tony's thigh at most. Their hands and feet were relatively large for their bodies, which may have been comical if they didn't look so damned sinister. Charges of Satan, perhaps.

Flanking them were a tall, dark pair which, judging by their pointy ears Tony could only assume were elves (because why not, right?) Followed by – well ho there, more elves! Though while the first were dressed black enough for a funeral march, the second were more like the Aryan wet-dream – blue-eyed, silver-haired, so white they were actually _glowing_ for god's sake.

The last four to arrive, to Tony's great relief, looked surprisingly human, only peculiar in that one man was dripping wet, blanched and sallow-faced as if he'd been in the midst of drowning only moments before. Tony thought them odd, but surely less worrying than the others. At least his partner seemed fairly nor-o _h!_ okay, _wow_ . Except for _that_ half of her face. Was that her jaw showing through? And the dangling flesh...

Shit. _Wow,_ was that ever gross.

Reminder to _never_ watch another Walking Dead movie. This girl was entirely way too high-def for Tony's stomach.

After zombie princess and co., the marching trail of tributes finally, thankfully ceased.

Tony scanned over the diverse group as they branched off to each of their chariots, reminding himself weakly that _yes_ – this was happening. This was actually bloody happening. His body shuddered violently. The thought of fighting against any one of these... people, was no more inviting than another date with a chitauri squadron. In space. With a nuclear war-head on his –

Yeah, no – not going there. Nope.

Tony stifled a wave of anxiety as he clutched his hands together, feeling the heat rise between them. Shaking? Who's shaking? Not Tony Stark, that's for sure.

And yet, Tony counted. There were still only eight pairs gathered. Where were the Asgardians? Where was – ?

At that moment, the door on the far end of the hall opened once again, permitting two final tributes to make their entrance. With all the airs of a royal coronation, they strode through the throng of Capitol workers, bringing every pair of eyes to them as they approached.

Dark-haired and ivory skinned, the man walked with all the practised fluidity of a noble-born, an assured yet refined elegance with every step. His sleek leathery attire, gilded with patches of golden armour and green satin fabrics flowed around him as he walked, as if he had worn this garment every day of his life. By his side was another black-haired Asgardian, her head tilted high and stately. But Tony's eyes were nailed entirely to the first.

Tony's heart sank.

That wasn't Thor.

That was _definitely_ not Thor.

He watched in horror as the man who had decimated Manhattan, massacred thousands of people and thrown Tony out of a 93-story window so recently he could still feel the rush of his suitless free-fall in his ears, walked towards him. As befitting, Loki's face was a portrait of arrogant indifference as he neared the chariots.

That was, until he noticed Tony.

The cheshire grin which lit up the god's face then spoke more words than Tony ever needed, or _wanted_ to know about the current state of things.

Three things, to be exact:

Not only was Loki free, ie – _not_ incarcerated in a deep, dark dungeon facing Asgardian punishment for attempted global invasion, but _here_ , in the Capitol, soon to be one of Tony's rival's in a winner-takes-all murder melee. And third – unlike Tony, he seemed _very_ happy to see _him_.

And oh, if it was not in that moment which Tony finally realized, with full soul-crushing clarity –

They were _so_ screwed.

“Good news!” exclaimed Vibius, popping up between Tony's line of vision. He was nearly bouncing on his heels. “After a few pulled strings and a little bargaining, I've managed to sway the procession order in our favour! We were meant to ride in third but now you'll be taking the lead! A much stronger impression, don't you think? You'll have all the attention first-hand!” He laughed proudly.

Tony was still trying to catch a glimpse of Loki, not wanting his eyes off him for a second. The god was now distracted by his own escort though, who seemed to be giving him intensive instructions by their chariot.

“Well don't go thanking me or anything, it's not like it was _inconvenient_ ,” said Vibius flatly, noticing Tony's inattention. “But you are lined up for another photoshoot now, so you know. Small payment, all things considered.”

“Tony...” Natasha gave him a long look then and he returned it gravely. It wasn't fear, by any means, but definite concern.

Yeah, this was going to complicate things. A _lot._

Not having Thor's help was certainly a setback, but now, having to deal with this maniac on top of everything else? Tony sensed a whole new level of shit-storm on the horizon and it didn't look to be clearing any time soon.

If there was one thing Tony was sure of, it was that where there was Loki, havoc was sure to follow. Which may not have been a bad thing, as far as it might serve useful as a distraction. A few explosions here and there from someone as unpredictable as the god of mischief could add some helpful chaos in the mix. Take the attention of him and Nat. On the other hand, this did not bode well for their chances in the arena.

Not at all.

Even without his pointy blue doom stick, Loki was not to be underestimated. He had all the physical advantages of an Asgardian along with who knows how many magic tricks up his sleeve. Granted, the guy was a complete basket case. But with a mind for mayhem and a tongue sharp enough to put even Tony at his mark (not to mention the moral code of a genocidal tyrant), the man would make a considerable adversary. Tony knew their meeting in New York was only a taste of what the god was capable of, and he was none to keen to find out now. Unfortunately, Tony hadn't been getting his way much as of late.

“I'm going to finalize the deal,” Vibius said, leaning in. “You two start practising facial expressions besides grim and death and I'll be back shortly to conduct you. Don't wander, now!” He then rushed off again as swiftly as he'd come.

Tony scoffed. As if he could be expected to look happy with _Loki,_ of all people, in the same ro– _wait. Where was he?_

Tony scanned the hall. The man was no longer standing by his chariot. When he looked back to Natasha she had her arms crossed and her chin held up rigidly, looking just over Tony's shoulder. He felt a sudden unease spread over him and it didn't take many brain cells to guess why.

“Out of all the tributes Midgard had to offer, and this is who they sent,” came the silvery voice behind him. “I must say...” Tony steeled himself, clenching his jaw as he turned to face the green-eyed god. “I'm not disappointed.”

Loki's smile was entirely sharp, keen as a viper without an ounce of feigned pleasure. Up close, Tony could see that he was as freshly preened and polished as Tony was, his hair neatly swept back and cropped to his shoulders. Though speckled with armour, his attire was more showy than protective. The sleek sash of feathers down his front, deep black with hints of purples and blues where the light caught, gave him the appearance of an ornamented raven. He still had the cold complexion of someone who hadn't slept or seen the sun for years, but it sure was a vast change from the frayed and battered Loki he'd seen off in Central park.

A lot less chains, too.

“Well, we can't exactly let Asgard think they're the best and brightest of the universe anymore.” Tony put on his best press-conference grin. “A real competition might tidy up those outdated views. And if your little knockdown in New York didn't convince you, we'll be more than happy to show you again.” His face said picnic but his tone said bring it.

Loki cocked his head jovially. “New York?”His gaze wandered for a moment as if searching to remember. “You're not still bitter about all that are you?” he asked lightly, his concern deeply affected.

“A lot of people are still dead over that, so yeah, we kind of are,” said Tony evenly, trying to ignore the severe height difference between them. And the languid way Loki kept looking his outfit up and down.

“Not to mention all the personal nerves you hit along the way,” Natasha added darkly. Loki gave her a lazy look-over too.

“What can I say,” he grinned. He began to leisurely stroll around them. “I like to make an impression.”

Tony scoffed. “Like the one you made on my penthouse floor?”

Loki didn't waver, still wearing that little lop-sided smirk that made Tony itch to wipe it off with his fist. Of course, it didn't help noticing how comfortably Loki moved in his own tribute costume. Or how well it suited him, actually. _Unbelievable._ Damn prima donna could wear a sandwich board and still make it look dignified.

“Don't think I've forgotten about Barton,” said Natasha. She may have looked poised, but Tony could practically feel the fury rolling off of her now. Loki circled them like a jungle cat, taking his time to decide how hungry he was.

“And don't think I've forgotten about our last little chat, Romanoff. I still owe you a trick for that one.” He came round to stop in front of them again.

“Oh, I think you'll be doing all sorts of tricks for me once we're in the ring,” she answered smoothly. He looked even more delighted at that, if possible.

“Speaking of tricks, why _are_ you here exactly?” Tony crossed his arms and Loki gave him his full attention again. “Not to be rude or anything, but I kinda figured you'd be lashed to a post for eternity or something. I mean, good on ya for stepping up to the hero plate and all – stab at redemption maybe? But I don't really see how this fits in with your whole global domination repertoire. It just feels a little odd to me.”

Loki huffed, clearly enjoying himself. He took another step towards Tony then, and Tony had to stop himself from backing away from the sudden close proximity. The whole height deal was getting harder to ignore now, as the god loomed over him and Tony remembered with a shiver – the last time they'd been this close, Loki's hands had been wrapped around his throat. It wouldn't take much now to... But no – this time they were here, in the Capitol. Surely Loki wouldn't risk the safety of his own planet by starting something now... would he?

All of Tony's certainty seemed to slip away as he felt the god studying him, intently, his gaze unfolding and flaying him open like a soon-to-be meal. Against all protests, Tony's body went rigid as a board, freezing him entirely to the spot. He tried to keep his face brazen. He would not give Loki the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.

“This is a competition to draw blood, is it not?” Came the man's response. Tony could almost feel Loki's breath on him. “The tasks we are selected for are based on our talents, and I can assure you, I have considerable talent in this.” He brought a finger to his own lips, thoughtfully brushing over their surface. Tony found himself watching those pale, thin hands, instinctively. “And now that your fellow heroes are so very far away, it will only come down to you two. I only hope it won't end too quickly,” his eyes shone darkly as he leaned down further still.

There was no humour in his face now, only the cold, cavernous intensity of a man only too familiar, Tony realized, with the intricate ways of torture. Tony had seen that look before. In eyes, in burrowed caves where the light never quite touches. The taste of metal on his teeth and the slick wet scrape of rock slab grinding on his back. A snatch of stars and bile with every lash. He knew it now, like an intimate touch. Hard and deep like a stone.

Tony stared full into the face of the god as he whispered down, “I want to enjoy this.”

Fortunately, Tony was rescued from his sudden incapacity for speech, or breathing, when the dark-haired woman from before swept up beside them. “I hope my partner isn't causing you grief,” she said briskly, casting a quick glance at Loki before addressing them both fully. Loki looked slightly disappointed as he leaned back again.

The Asgardian woman's costume mirrored Loki's in many ways, from its feathery front and golden decorations to the pretentiously high-collared neck. Her chest and vambraces though were rimmed with a deep red satin, along with a matching thigh-length skirt. She had a stout way of holding herself, and it reminded Tony immediately of Thor. He felt his nervousness start to slip away almost instantly.

“We're just catching up,” said Natasha blandly. “And who are you?”

The woman straightened. “I am Lady Sif, of Asgard. Daughter of the realm and right hand to the Warriors Three. I am also a close acquaintance of Thor's,” she exclaimed proudly. Tony and Natasha exchanged a look. “I have heard much of you, Man of Iron, Lady Natasha,” she nodded to each of them. “He speaks often and fondly of your names. I had very much hoped to meet you – under better circumstances, of course,” she added wistfully.

“Yeah, can't say this is much of a situation for making friends,” muttered Tony. He still had his eyes glued to their first visitor. As were Loki's, likewise.

“This is true,” she agreed sadly. “We of Asgard are ever striving to bring the realms to peace and unity, and now I fear this competition has brought us to our greatest discord of all.” She gave Loki another acrid look. “At least we can say it is not handed by our own this time.”

Her partner raised his eyebrows then, as if uncomprehending.

“At least...” repeated Tony doubtfully.

“We're also sorry,” Natasha spoke up to her – and it _was_ quite a ways up, “that it has to be like this.” She put a solid hand on her hip. “But don't think we'll be holding back just because you've got ties with Thor. We're in this to win,” she promised gravely.

The two women appraised each other for what seemed a very long time before slowly, intently Sif nodded in response.

Loki looked between them with a renewed sense of joviality. “It would seem the Midgardian has challenged us, Sif – how _very_ brave.” He smiled down at her. “Bears her guns like a man.”

“I don't need a gun to make threats.”

“Well, that makes one of you at least.”

It was a good thing Vibius showed up then or Tony might have had a lot of explaining to do for his fist.

“Alright, we're only seconds away! Time to mount up!” He began to usher them, before noticing the additional pair standing beside them. “Oh, and you must be the Asgardians,” he said politely. “Best be off to your places now, your escort will want a few final words with you.”

Sif gave them all one last look-over before addressing Natasha again. “May the tides be with you, my lady.” And she said it like she meant it. Loki looked like he wanted to get a few more rubs in but he allowed Vibius to direct him away regardless.

Tony watched him suspiciously as he went. “You're being awfully obedient. They giving you treats for letting them trot you around like this?”

Loki smirked over his shoulder, as if expecting the final scrape. “Not at all. Unlike you, Stark,” he slid a hand through his smooth dark hair as he walked away. “ _I'm_ having fun.”

 

Tony gazed after the man long after he'd reached his chariot on the far side of the hall. He seemed no more phased than if he were on a cruise ship and this was all some splendid vacation. Probably was, for him.

_Prick._

By his side, Natasha was also watching them closely.

Just then a loudspeaker voice boomed above them. _“Tributes mount up! Tributes mount up!”_

Vibius gave them another nudge over to their chariots, reminding them again to smile and wave, keep their back straights, don't fall off, etc. Tony boarded then offered a hand to Natasha as she climbed up after him. The Capitol workers were now scurrying off to their places, muttering final affirmations into their headsets. Outside, the crowds were growing louder still, their voices echoing all throughout the hall now. Tony gripped the handle rail til his knuckles whitened, still flustered from his reunion with Loki.

The smug-faced bastard. Riling Tony up like that. He knew that's exactly what the god had wanted and he still fell for it, red bull-cape and all. Rattling Tony right before his first big appearance. It was highschool stuff, and Tony let him lure him in like a god damn freshman. He would've kicked the chariot but he didn't want to spook the horses. Like they needed a booster start.

Tony was so caught up in his own self-abasement he hardly had time to register the horn sounding and Vibius's last thumbs up as their horses lurched into action. He blinked back to reality just as they passed through the gaping mouth of the hall and into a glaring wall of sunlight. The sound that met them then was crushing, as thousands upon thousands of voices rang out towards them, whistling, screaming, calling – their chaotic clattering led only by a steady pounding of drums. Tony could almost feel the vibration in his bones, passing through him like a heavy pulse as they rode along the runway. Under his feet, the chariot trembled and shook, stirring up furious dust clouds all around them. As he looked skyward, he could see his and Natasha's faces, blown up to extraordinary size on a vast screen floating high above the stands. His expression looked like he'd just swallowed an eel. Natasha elbowed him hard and he jumped to attention, plastering a fat smile on his face for all to see.

_That's right – smile Tony, smile. This is just another convention. Another ego-stroking celebration of Stark Industries to the masses– the adoring fans, the queenly waving, the eccentric bows – nothing you haven't done before. Of course, those occasions don't usually have you flanked by sixteen aliens waiting to rip your throat out later. But hey, gotta keep up with the times, right?_

Tony took a quick glance behind him and sure enough, a hoard of black gleaming chariots and horses were following behind him, pursuing him to the end of the earth, it felt like.

Fortunately, they would only be following him to the end of the runway. As they finally reached it, all nine chariots slowed, forming into a line before an immense, central riser.

On the very highest point of this riser, back-dropped by a vast red and golden banner, was a tall young man, his hair whiter than a fresh fallen snow. He was a ways up but Tony could make him out clearly enough. His suit was dark and crisp, and he wore no makeup or fashionable accessories about his person. He had a stiff, translucent air about him, like the cast-off of an exoskeleton. Tony felt something cold wind its way up his spine as the man looked down at him.

The man raised a hand and all the crowds went silent. He approached the podium then, delicately.

“Welcome.” The word rang through the air like a clean bell, enhanced into a rolling thunder by the speakers around them. “Welcome tributes, from the nine realms, to our home – the Capitol.” Another wave of cheering ignited, and he waited patiently for the quiet to return. “The bravery and sacrifice you have shown to be here today is not a quality known to many. It is a rare, and noble gift.” He paused, placing a hand to his chest. “We thank you, from the deepest layers of our hearts, for offering us this gift.” The man raised his arms to them, nodding from his high, white tower.

Tony stiffened then. It were as if those words had sent a sudden wave of long-held answers crashing over him. A harsh and frigid cleanse that brought all his focus to a finely sharpened point.

He knew then, with ferocious clarity, what he should have known from the start. That all the spitting anger, the resentment and frustration he had bore down on the reaping woman, on Vibius, even on Loki – had only been a distraction from the true hand behind this whole horrific ordeal. The real face behind the Hunger Games. Tony was here now, in a city of blood-thirst and painted faces, about to place his life down on the line as his planet shook, helpless and terrified behind him – _because of this man._

And he decided then, no matter what it took, no matter what he would have to turn himself into, he would bring down the Capitol – the people, the ship, the Games – and most importantly, this man inextricably with it.

The crowd was frenzied once again, uncontrollable as they writhed and roared in their seats, generating a deep and rolling tremor that seemed to shake the very ground below.

“Happy Hunger Games,” said the bone-white man, taking a last glance down at the nineteen tributes before him. “And may the odds be ever in your favour.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaanndddd finally we have the much awaited meeting! (Took long enough, wow). Bring on the sass storm~
> 
> A lot of introductions in this chapter, my oh my. As I mentioned in my description, this is just my personal interpretation of the nine realms and their inhabitants. Some of it is based on research, some on my own personal ideas. Also - a key note, if anyone noticed Hel's appearance here - I'm much attached to the concept of her character, but for plot reasons I'm not giving her any familial relations with Loki. The daddy-daughter road doesn't really jive with where I'm going with this, so I hope that doesn't disappoint anyone too much.  
> Anyway, thanks again for reading! Hope you enjoy!


	8. A Little Sentiment

Loki stirred as he felt cool hands sliding through his hair and down his neck, smoothing out the strands, a light tug here and there as a small portion was woven into a braid. The fingers roamed and prodded where they pleased, the slight scrape of fingernails indicating their path of travel along his skin. He let himself sink into the soft touches and deeper still into his seat. His nerves sent little waves of pleasure through him as his thoughts hazed and nestled, imagining long distant nights by the hearthside, his cheek pressed to the fabric of his mother's dress. These touches did not linger as those had though, rimming the tender spots behind his ears which eased him to rest, but rather skimmed and stayed only so long as practically needed. Enough to do their work and no more.

The soft floral smell which rose from those hands, a hint of some concoction meant to tame his hair – 'distressed' they had called it – only added to the calm haze around him. He himself emanated a light fragrance now, clean and sweet after the rigorous cleansing they'd given him. The last lingering sweat and dust from his skirmish with Thor was long washed away now, leaving him fresh and barren. He preferred cleanliness and was well used to the hands of servants dressing and attending to him, so it was not an entirely terrible process. He just had to forget the fact that, over these particular hands, he held absolutely no authority.

Across the room, his escort, whose name he'd finally learned was Echo, made a series of soft clicking and clacking noises on her hand-held device. She sat at a slight angle, one leg draped comfortably over the other as she filled the room with mechanical tapping. Today, her violet hair was drawn up into two symmetrically intricate braids and wefted together with a bright red feather. Her dress was a sleek, matching red, with shoulders that puffed to the height of her ears.

She must have felt him staring then, as she looked up and quietly slipped her device away. She did not speak, only gazed thoughtfully at him – or through him, her chin propped between her finger and thumb as she seemed to churn something over in her mind. A new-found imperfection of the day, perhaps.

They watched each other for a long time.

"Your interview," she began finally, "will last only a few minutes." She adjusted herself more primly in her seat. "These few minutes will tell the audience who you are, what your motivation is and ultimately – whether they wish to sponsor you or not."

Loki remained silent as the woman behind him continued her work. He heard the quick snipping of scissors again, hunting down some last uneven strands.

"Charming as you've been so far, I might suggest you conceal certain qualities of character," she gave him a damp look, "particularly those you felt so keen to show me in the elevator." She stood then, pacing in front of him. The plush rug beneath her, a deep mauve ornamented with golden, nordic knots, hushed her high-heeled steps. "You will be asked questions that, depending on your answers, will either endear the audience to you, or repel them entirely. In this instance, I suggest you suppress your more natural responses. In other words, I expect you to lie," she halted directly in front of him, interlacing her fingers over her chest. "Can you do this for me?"

He made no expression. "I am experienced."

"Good." She began pacing again, then stopped suddenly, appraising a sullen portrait of Bor on the far wall, her eyes sharp and glittering. "I want you to be perfect."

The hands in Loki's hair retreated then, and after a quick brush on the shoulders he felt the smock fall away. Echo approached him.

"Stand."

He watched her placidly. Even sitting, Loki was scarcely the same height as her. She waited silently.

Slowly, he stood.

Her eyes roved up and down his body, taking in the sleekness of his hair, his pristine skin, the dark leather boots at his feet. The attire he wore now was less glamourous than the one before, a more formal Asgardian style with a hint of Capitol eccentricity. A slim black vest, cross-hatched with gold and a high collar over a deep green tunic, its sleeves yawning elegantly at his elbows.

She tapped her finger over her lips, then nodded her approval.

Just then a door on the far end of the chamber opened and Sif appeared, dressed in a sleek, crimson dress with a high ruffled collar and no sleeves. Thick gold hung about her ears and wrists, while her hair fell gracefully to one side, a single braid crowning across her forehead.

Both Loki and Echo stared back wordlessly.

Even at banquets, Loki had never seen Lady Sif in such delicate, feminine attire. The way the thin fabric draped across her curves, sliding loosely over her contours with every movement, giving just enough hint where the fabric creased – made his mouth part just a little. Her eyes narrowed as she entered the room, twisting a bracelet around her wrist.

"Ah! My darling, you look  _marvellous_!" Echo breached the silence, prancing towards her. Sif rolled her shoulders as the woman approached.

"Do you have nothing sturdier than this? I feel the fabric will simply tear away if I move too much," she scathed. Echo only tittered as she smoothed and fussed over Sif's hair.

"Don't worry about a thing, my dear. It fits you like a glove!"

At last, Loki found himself in agreement with the woman. He watched the exchange with much warming interest.

_A tender glove indeed._

Echo led Sif into the main living area, propping her up beside Loki so as to compare the two as a unit.

"Beautiful. Beautiful harmony," she cooed, appraising them together.

Sif crossed her arms, fuming. Loki could tell she wanted nothing more than to march straight back to her room and rip the thing to shreds. He didn't blame her. The dress hardly suited her coarse and hardy demeanour. Still... he took another glance at her now that she stood so close. As he watched, he could just barely see the lines of her neck as she swallowed beneath that bright red throat.

Echo turned abruptly, snatching out her device again to call and say they were ready. Everything was set.

Sif turned just as Loki's eyes were sliding down her hips, and she swiftly snared them up again with her own. "Don't," she growled.

Loki smirked quietly, facing his eyes forward again. "Not a word," he assured her politely.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~o~~~~~o~~~~~o~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

Once the final adjustments were made, Echo led Loki and Sif from the apartment complex and down across the ever-busy boulevard. The sun still hung high above them, though its surface now glowed a deep, dusky orange – dark enough to be viewed by the eye. Around it, the sky swirled in swathes of pinks, oranges and blues, mimicking a kind of horizon-less sunset. The air also imitated a cool, summery evening and Loki found it welcome on his skin after the dull warmth of their apartment. His head began to clear and he felt a sudden rush to be moving again.

Finally, after all the frivolous primping and preparing, they were moving forward with the next ridiculous event.

And it could not come soon enough, as far as he was concerned. The sooner it would all be over.

Loki had never enjoyed the ruckus of ceremony. It was pointless and loud, filled with drunkard celebrants and empty-headed speeches which strove to signify life's little endings and beginnings, the highlights and tragedies. And yet they had never seemed more than an excuse to drink and boast, for all he could tell. Loki had sat through many a jubilant feast, nodding to pretentious nobles, smiling through their constant enquiries about his father, his brother – wanting nothing more than to escape and hide himself away with his books and parchments until the band died down. Until the last singing guest stumbled their way down the palace steps and out of his thoughts forever.

The ceremonies here may have been a touch different than the crude celebrations of Asgard, but they still bore the same banal pretensions.

The parades, the costumes, the interviews. It was all fluff and indulgence. Entertainment for a people with too much time and wealth on their hands. With a few key notes of import slithered in, perhaps.

The speech at the parade, Loki noted, was nothing more than a silk-covered threat. A reminder to each and every one of them that they were not the Capitol's guests, but their prisoners. And that they would do well to see themselves for what they were – not heroes, but sacrifices.

Loki found the whole thing rather drawl, to be honest. Threats could by bypassed. Though he would have to keep his eye on the albino man from now on. There was a calm alertness about him which Loki had not seen in many others since his arrival. Not a drifting, dreamy gaze – caught up in fashions and gossip – but a swift and calculating one. Ideal, Loki knew, for unscrupulous endeavours.

All that would have to wait though. For now...

"Look lively! The last thing I need is an empty stage where you two should be." Echo trotted in front of them, her high-heels clip-clopping down the pavement as she went.

They made their way to the rear entrance of a large but mostly wide building, and after a quick scan of her keycard, followed the woman inside. The hallway was long and brightly lit with a harsh sterile smell. They must have been underneath a stage or seating area, as deep vibrations thrummed loudly through the ceiling, making the lights flicker occasionally. After a few turns and a final stairwell up, they reached a big black door. Echo stopped suddenly, her hand poised over the knob as she turned to them both.

"Remember," she warned, " _No._   _Fighting._ " And after a curt nod, she ushered them through.

Beyond was a small and practical room, dressed with nothing more than a row of seats and a few monitor screens which displayed a currently empty stage. On the far wall was another dark hallway which Loki could only assume led to that stage, as low music rumbled down from it. Right now the only ones occupying the room were the dwarves and the dark elves, along with a few stage-hands and escorts. The latter were mostly caught up in fervent discussion, leaving the tributes to glower uncomfortably from their corners.

As he entered, Loki nearly froze from the scene before him. Never, in all his godly life, had he seen such an irately, primly dressed dwarf. Like an impudent child forced to wear formal dress for a banquet, the little imp was all but writhing in his seat. With a full coat and tails, sharp black shoes and a small gnarly head, the entire look was downright bizarre. While his partner... well, Loki was just amazed they could discern which one was the female.

On their far left were the dark-elves, silent and shifty-eyed as they stood huddled by the wall. Their dark robes draped around them, glinting of something silvery. Over their eyes were some kind of tinted visors.

Sif took a seat nearest the door, propping her arm back uninterestedly. Loki, on the other hand, felt a sudden inclination to invite himself into the dark elves' company. A small detail still nagged at the back of his mind, and now seemed a perfect time to soothe it. The couple leered warily as he approached.

"Greetings," he nodded politely.

"What do you want, Asgardian?" hissed the first elf. The last word dripped with hostility. Loki held his palms up, appeasingly.

"Only a little conversation to ease the boredom."

"Get gone. We have nothing to discuss with you."

"Oh but you might." Loki laced his fingers in front of him, tapping his thumbs together gently. "You see, I'm just fighting off a little curiosity and I think you can help me. I can't help but wonder how – despite the wide-held knowledge that the entire dark elven race was wiped out – quite violently I might add –  _you two_  are somehow standing here. Very much alive, it seems." He made a deeply concerned expression. "You must admit, it's a little odd."

"The only oddity here is your concept of knowledge," spat the female elf. "We are not so fragile a race as you think. We've thrived in far worse conditions than your soft Asgardian haven. We won't fall to a single blow."

"Well, it seems you two squirmed out quite nicely from that blow. Tell me, were your ancestors even present for the battle of Bor – or were they more taken to cowering in their huts? Or, pardon – caves, perhaps?"

Loki watched as the elves turned, shoulders braced and fists curling at the mention of Bor. He put up a sympathetic smile. "Always a few rats who survive the flood," he shrugged.

" _It's not just a few of us_ ," the male growled. "There are camps – hundreds of us still thriving in the dark, building our strength. We  _will_  become an empire again. And we will  _not_  forget the debt we owe that ram-horned man, and now,  _your realm_."

Loki gawked in surprise. " _Hundreds,_  you say? My that is... something." He cupped his hands behind his back. "Still, all this effort of showing up and fighting in a galactic-wide competition – all for a few hundred survivors..." Loki bit his lip thoughtfully. "Seems a bit of a waste, don't you think?"

The glares which met him then were unparalleled, and Loki could no longer detain the wide grin from spreading across his own.

"Those few hundreds," whispered the female, her voice shaking, "are worth more to us than the rest of the realms combined."

Loki chuckled. "I'm sure they do. Unfortunately," he began to turn away. He was growing bored now. "I doubt the values of weaklings have much worth in a place like this."

He could still feel the dark elves' hot leers on him as he walked back to where Sif sat and propped himself contentedly, arms crossed, against the wall.

Well, this was certainly turning out more interesting than he'd hoped. At least the company would be entertaining while he waited. Though he could hardly consider a dark elf to be a fair match of wit.

Loki glanced about the room. They had now been joined by the Vanir, the light elves, the living corpses and the fire demon and giant. The space was already quite small, so the new additions only made the close proximity even more noticeable. Sour looks peppered the room from all angles.

Which was no surprise, of course. The nine realms were hardly on peaceful terms with one another. Wars and battles erupted almost weekly between them, sparked by nearly anything – from historical feuds, passing insults, to simple, age-old greed. Asgard was forever striving to maintain order among them, though there was only so much that could be done. Suffering had been great from all sides, leaving grudges to churn and fester for millenia. Revenge efforts had been played out for so long, from so many different sides, that to pinpoint the true origin of blame would have been an impossible task (though there were always theories, of course, depending on whom you asked). And yet, the fighting always continued, growing hotter with each new generation, as sons inherited the skins and stories of their fathers. Loki knew it well. There was no end to hatred like that.

And so, to say the the general feeling in the room was tense would have been vastly understated.

The door beside Loki opened then, permitting two lumbering, blue giants into the room. They turned their heads to him as they entered, appraising Loki with their blood red eyes. He watched them back, without comment. As they passed, he felt a deep chill radiating off their skin, and found his own prickling softly in response. He resisted the urge to move away, lest they thought him intimidated, though he could not help cringing slightly. The sensation was not uncomfortable per se, just... foreign. He watched them silently, releasing a silent breath when they had finally moved on to the far end of the room. Not silent enough, unfortunately.

He turned to find Sif watching him, her eyebrows high and inquisitive. He scowled down at her.

There was no doubt that Sif knew all about Loki's heritage. Hel, the whole kingdom must have known by now. And they were probably none too happy about it either. Knowing that their king was dead. That Loki had been acting in his place. And now their homes – their very lives, were riding on him. A  _frost giant_ of all creatures.  _Must be horrifying_ , thought Loki dryly.

And now Sif was looking very much like she had her own opinion on the subject.

He was about to tell her to shove it, when she raised her hands, placating.

"Not a word," she promised sweetly.

All at once the screens lit up as the stage burst into life. The music grew loud and vibrant as muted chattering rose to a raving round of applause. Moments later, a man with bright purple hair and a silver tuxedo entered the stage, beaming and blowing passionate kisses along the way. He greeted the audience with much gusto and animation as he walked out, thanking them for their lovely reception. The stage-hands also began to stir, nodding quickly to eachother as they grabbed clipboards and muttered into their ear-mics.

It seems the show had begun.

"Good evening, good evening, ladies and gentleman! Fans and thrill-seekers! Welcome to the 2,529th Annual Hunger Games!" whistles and music blared as the so-called master of ceremony made a grand sweep of the stage. "Are you ready to meet your tributes?" The crowd roared with cheers. "Are you ready to cry? Laugh? Be thrilled beyond words?" The crowed screamed even louder, and the man replied with a hearty guffaw into his mic. "Wonderful!"

Everyone backstage had their eyes glued to the screens. All except Loki, who was scanning the room, wondering idly why a certain couple of tributes had not yet arrived.

"Let's not waste another moment then! Shall we find out if their hearts really are as cold as their home? May I present to you – the blue, the abominable – the frost giants of Jotunheim!"

The first frost giant was ushered down the hall, where he soon disappeared behind a curtain. He then reappeared on the screen captured stage, his skin practically glowing in the glare of lights. He stood rooted to the spot, raising an arm to shield his eyes. Loki huffed. He had never seen a frost giant look so incredibly out of place. The master of ceremony laughed again, inviting him to sit in one of two chairs placed on the stage.

Just then the backstage door flew open, and every head turned to see the last two tributes and a very frazzled looking escort standing in its frame. The Midgardians were rushed right past Loki and into the room, breathing as though they had just been moving at a very fast pace. Leaving the man of iron to straighten his clothes and catch his breath, their escort dragged Romanoff to the nearest stagehand, no doubt to fix the disheveled state of her hair.

Loki smirked. Maybe it was not too late for some fun after all.

He was just pushing off from the wall when he heard a snort beside him.

"Must you?" inquired Sif flatly.

"Must I what?" he asked innocently as he continued to move forward. She made a tight face but no further attempt to stop him.

Tony Stark was standing in the centre of the room, swiveling to take in the screen and all the tributes dressed so strangely around him. He himself was wearing a rather basic black suit, only excessive in its bright gold lapels and the blood red bow tie at his neck. He noticed Loki just as he approached.

"Oh lovely," he sighed "you're here too."

Loki greeted him with a warm smile. "I am indeed. It's an important event, so I'm told."

"Yeah, sure." Stark gave him a dubious look over, straightening his own jacket. "You look nice."

Loki chuckled. The outfit was odd but not outlandish. He returned Stark's scan. "As do you. Though I think I preferred your last costume somewhat more. It really captured your...  _essence_."

The man shrugged. "Yeah, well, I liked your gagged-in-chains look but we can't all get our way."

Loki hummed pleasantly, not at all put off by the comment. He turned to face the screen, so they were standing side by side. The host was asking the frost giant about his culture's particular cuisine and the giant was peering back at him like a bull would an insect.

The grin faded slightly from his lips as he watched the tribute attempting to answer the man's barrage of questions. It was a struggle, to say the least. His words fumbled out in mono syllables and grunts where no answer seemed forthcoming. Mostly he just glared into the audience. Such a dull-witted creature. Born for the carnage of battle not the wooing of a powder-nosed crowd of nobles. What did they expect? Probably no more than this, Loki realized. He was a joke to them. An animal on display.

"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"

Loki broke off his thoughts, stealing a glance at the shorter man beside him. Stark's eyes were glued to the screen as he talked. "It's funny, cause I'm sure you could ask anyone else in this room and they'd tell you they're having the shittiest time of their life. That little guy especially." He jerked his head to the wriggling dwarf. "And why shouldn't they? Their homes are on the brink of destruction while they're being forced to smile and curtsy for a bunch of fashionista mass-murderers." He rolled his shoulder, massaging it with his left hand. "And yet you seem pleased as a cocktail punch. Prison must've really sucked if this is gettin' your jollies."

Loki merely raised an eyebrow, folding his arms in front of him. The man certainly liked to talk.

A round of applause sounded as the frost giant left the stage, having completed his turn of public abasement. The next giant promptly took his place.

"But then, mass murder is kind of your thing, isn't it? I mean, I can tell you're a bit off your rocker, even without the godly rages and speeches à la fascism. Trying to take over the world takes its own level of eccentric. And trust me, I  _know_  eccentric." He sniffed – a funny side quirk of the nose. "But when it comes to you, being here, I don't know whether to be impressed or disgusted." He turned to face Loki. "You just like to watch everyone squirm, don't you?"

Loki's smirk returned, already enjoying the conversation. "If anyone is squirming Stark, it would appear to be you." He continued to watch the screen, drumming his fingers over his left arm.

"And what," the man scoffed, "you're just thrilled to dance for these monkeys?"

A huff of amusement came out at that. Loki considered the question carefully, taking his time before answering. "The Capitol's methods are... interesting. Unorthodox perhaps, but highly effective," he replied, shimmying the subject away from himself. "These ceremonies are as banal as their decorum, but they do hold their purpose."

"Oh yeah? And what's that, exactly?"

"They're sizing us up," he stated, matter of factly. "Seeing how we compare while reminding us of our stations. We are the game pieces and they, the gods. The warriors in this room have already acknowledged this. They know where the others stand, and so, how best to kill them. Some will use their strength, others their wit."  _Or both, if they're clever,_  he thought. "In a competition like this, knowing your role could mean the difference between winning and losing." He finally turned to face the human. "So tell me, Stark." He looked him dead on. "In these Hunger Games – are you a king, or a pawn?"

Stark's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I don't plan on being either," he answered evenly.

Loki's grin revealed a row of smooth white teeth, his eyes glittering with mischief as he whispered, "Then you'll have to become a god."

Tony's brow furrowed, giving the god a long, scrutinizing look, as if noticing another facet to Loki for the first time.

"Like you?" He asked, not kindly.

Loki only continued to grin. The Midgardian could interpret as he liked. He turned his focus back to the screen. "Perhaps."

Another wave of applause signalled the end of an interview, and the stagehands busily set about positioning the next tribute.

Romanoff.

Tony jumped to attention as he realized his partner would be going up next. He gave her a firm nod and a thumbs up signal before she was rushed down the hall, two pairs of hands still rummaging frantically through her hair. Next moment she was gliding across the stage, looking calmer than a pond in moonlight. Her movements and dress were flawless as she sat down with the interviewer, offering him an irresistible smile. Tony was no longer interested in conversation, now fully immersed in his partner's exchange on screen. Loki watched in silence too, enjoying the subtle manoeuvres Romanoff used to endear herself, both with her playful words and quietly seductive body language.

He'd been impressed with her little show on SHIELD's hellicarier, even though it had cost him information on his plans. The little actress was a cold blooded chameleon when it came to her work, and he could certainly respect her for that. Not to mention her viperous skills in combat.

He would have to watch her carefully, he noted, should they meet in the ring.

Romanoff's interview carried on with a string of good-natured teases, some delicate pandering and of course, plenty of high, girlish laughs. In other words, nothing like the woman he knew in real life. It was a convincing act though. The interviewer thanked her profusely as they shook hands to a cacophony of cheers, and she left the stage bathed in a warm glow.

However, as if the curtain itself had performed some trick of switchery, Romanoff reappeared backstage as a different person. A bitter cold face and a heavy trod which growled 'touch me and you're dead' replaced the happy glow of moments before. Despite this, her escort was a bouncing bundle of praise.

Next up.

"Good luck," Loki offered as Stark was guided away.

A sharp laugh. "Only amateurs need luck," he rebuked over his shoulder.

Loki turned to watch his entrance on screen.

Needless to say, the Midgardian was a natural in the spotlight. From the moment he walked on stage, Stark's presence seemed to radiate with a commanding yet sprightly air. Everything, from his body posture, to his casual stride, to the cheeky kisses he bequeathed to the audience, simply exuded with confidence. When he smiled it made you want to smile back. When he sat, he lounged back with his legs wide, one draped casually over the other as he nodded to the host. Any sign of jitters or discomfort all but vanished as he seemed to take up all the space in the theatre at once.

Loki couldn't help but laugh a little, quietly. It didn't take a name slathered across the front of his own skyscraper to realize the man enjoyed his exhibitionism. Loki could hardly blame him on that note, though.

"Tony Stark, ladies and gentleman!" The crowd cheered with renewed fervour. Seems they had been anticipating his particular entrance. "HaHA! Wonderful, wonderful!" The host waited for the crowd to quiet down before beginning. "Well then, how are you doing tonight, Tony?"

Stark shifted to settle further into his seat. "Well, not bad," he mused, "considering they wouldn't let me come out with my usual team of half naked dancers and fireworks. I'm feeling a bit underdressed, to be honest."

A wave of titters from the audience. The master of ceremonies snickered. "What a riot! Isn't he fun? You're not shy in front of a crowd, I see."

"Are you kidding? I'm trembling. Though that might just be the Capitol's coffee. You guys grow a pretty mean roast."

"Haha! Of course, only the best for our tributes!" He beamed, then leaned in, his tone lightening. "Now tell us Tony – it is Tony right, not Anthony? I can call you Tony? Great. So tell us what you do, back on earth. What's your life about?"

"Well," and there was that funny sniff again, "I'm a man of many trades actually. My resume includes everything from building some of the earth's most advanced weaponry to harnessing clean renewable energy sources to being a bit of a superhero on the side. It's not all saving the world though. I also enjoy bowling and picnics, occasionally."

"Wo-how! No kidding!" The host turned to include the audience in his amazement, talking behind his hand as if Stark couldn't hear his booming voice through the loudspeakers. "Well doesn't he sound like Mr. Perfect!"

"That's not true," Stark argued. "I always forget to floss on weekends. But look at you. Your teeth are flawless. Is that... is that my reflection I see?" He leaned in, seeming to fix his bow in front of the host's smiling face.

Another surge of laughter.

The host wagged his finger. "Now, now, don't try to flatter me, Tony."

"Who, me? I'm just trying to save my planet and go home. Why, is it working?"

The host reeled with joy. "HaHA! It might be!"

By the sounds of the audience, it certainly was. After only minutes on stage, it seemed Stark had successfully captivated the ears and hearts of every spectator in the theatre. And then, who knows how many more beyond that, seeing as this was a televised event. The entire Capitol, as Echo informed him earlier, was watching tonight, laughing along to Stark's jokes, devising whether his survival was worth their glittery sponsorship.

Loki was a student of many types of magic, from elemental spells, to holistic energies, to the cursing of objects. There were many times though, when he was accused of wielding a different kind of magic. When his words softened the rage of thunder through another's ear, or implanted the seeds of guilt or suspicion with only a well-placed whisper. Stark was using this kind of enchantment now. A magic which required no spell work, yet still stroked the invisible strings of influence. It was the power of knowing what people wanted to hear, then casting an illusion which underlyingly twisted to your own benefit. It was the power of seduction.

That the human could wield this power so effortlessly was worrying in itself. Especially in a game like this, where emotional appeal could be as advantageous as mastery of swordsmanship. As he watched the screen, finger stroking pensively over his lip, Loki realized. He would have to play his best cards if he wanted to take that away from him.

"So you've come here to save the world again, have you? That's very admirable of you Tony – very admirable. But I have to ask, civilization aside, is there a  _special_  someone waiting back home for you? Someone who inspires you more than anyone else?"

A long pause stretched out as Tony rubbed his partly shaven chin. His mouth twisted to the side as he studied his shoe.

"Yeah, actually. There is someone." Audible disappointment rumbled from the audience. "She's amazing, actually. A lot more perfect than I am," he added, and for the first time during his interview, Tony Stark seemed stunted on what to say next. Something new took over his features then, softer than the smug smirk from before. The mic was edged closer to him. "She is... everything," he continued, no longer looking at the host but to a more distant place, beyond everyone. "She was the last person I saw off before leaving, and... I only hope she's the first when I return."

There was a long silence then, followed by a murmur of sighs.

And there it was.

Loki's finger halted over lip, stilled by a sudden recognition.

_How very interesting._

The host gave a sympathetic look, retrieving his mic and adding softly, "Well Tony, I think I speak for a majority of us when I say – I hope she is too." He let the sentiment drift for only a moment before his face lit up, arms waving in a grand gesture of excitement. "Tony Stark, ladies and gentleman!"

Stark returned back stage, roars of applause and screaming following in his wake, his charm successfully cast. He looked no more phased than if he'd just walked out his own front door. Loki greeted him with another passive smile.

"Impressive."

Tony shrugged, walking right past him. "They seemed to like it."

Loki watched as he joined his partner in the far corner of the room, no doubt to congratulate one another on their solid achievement. Loki turned back to the screen with a hum.

More tributes followed one after another, taking their seat and answering questions in varying levels of eloquence. None seemed to garner the same exuberance and attention as Tony's interview had, though. His charisma stood out more proudly than any of the others, and while each had their moments, it was clear who had gained the most interest.

Before long, it was Sif's turn to take a seat, and Loki watched her with intimate attention. She performed none of the girlish charms the Midgardian woman had, nor did she make any attempt at subtle graces. Sif held herself like a warrior, back-shouldered and high-chinned. Her answers were curt and to the point, forcing the host into many corners of recovery before he could continue the ball rolling. Strangely enough, the audience found this rather amusing, as she tossed her own cutting questions back faster than the host could even return them. By the end, they were even rooting for her. Shrieks of glee sounded when the interviewer stopped to comically catch his breath and fan himself with his hand.

Loki was impressed. Unlike the others, Sif had won the audience with pure honesty alone. It was not naivety, Loki knew, but rather a steadfast sense of self and integrity which Sif sugar-coated for no one. It was how she stood, unwavering and unapologetic, among the ranks of men. It was what made her so very, very different from Loki and yet somehow, at the same time, entirely irresistible.

For the duration of her interview, he could not take his eyes off her.

Unfortunately, that allowed little time to prepare for his own. Before she had even left the stage, Loki was being corralled into position. Hands smoothed through his hair and down his clothes as Echo clucked her last few string of instructions. "Alright, remember what I told you. Be nice, don't threat, stay positive and don't. Forget. To.  _Smile_." The tone of her last word dripped with acid, before bouncing back to cream. "Good luck!" she sang, and the next moment he knew, he was standing in a blaze of gold and white light, the cheers from before now magnified ten-fold as he faced a sea of glimmering hands and faces, then shadows as they rolled further and further beyond the light's reach. It was like rising from the ocean, the softly muted world of the waves bursting into colour and clamour as the surroundings took their distinctly sharpened shapes.

Loki's shock, however, never reached the surface. His face remained a veil of calm remoteness as he strode across the stage, taking his seat with the same undeniable authority he would have taken the very throne of Asgard. But then it really was no different, he realized, than the speeches given in the grand hall of the palace. Loki was accustomed to standing and speaking before large crowds of people. It was a fundamental duty of a royal family, though granted, most of those speeches were given by Odin himself. While his presence had been required, more often than not Loki had stood silent and stoic from the sidelines.

But now – now the attention was all on him, and the reception he earned was no less than Tony's had been. He allowed the applause to wash pleasantly over him, his skin practically soaking it in. He could not deny, it felt very good. In time, he offered the audience a serene smile.

By his side, the master of ceremonies simply beamed at him. Now he was up close, Loki could see the man's teeth really were the glossy white Tony had joked them to be. Almost disturbingly so.

"Loki, welcome! We're so pleased to have you here tonight!"

"The pleasure's all mine," he replied smoothly. As he glanced about, Loki saw his own lounging image magnified and multiplied on the numerous screens behind him. It was a peculiar thing to see his face staring back at him, enlarged and distorted by the lights and camera. His hair swept neatly round his shoulders in clean, black waves, while his complexion looked far healthier than its usual sallow tint. With all that makeup, you'd never tell how many nights he'd gone without a proper sleep.

"Excellent, well then!" The host wasted no time. "I was watching you on the runway the other day and I must say, you and your partner looked positively exquisite. So refined, so elegant – wouldn't you agree?" The crowd agreed. "That gold and green number – AH! A feast to behold! Now don't think I'm brown-nosing here, but I would even say you looked  _regal_." He gave Loki a pointed look.

Loki returned it. "You wouldn't be wrong."

"Ha! Not very modest, are you?"

"Royalty rarely is."

The man barked out a laugh, but then his face fell from glee to suspicion, his brow knotting as he realized. "So you are, then? From a royal family I mean."

Loki made a tight lipped smile. They obviously knew little about the realms they scoured, and even less about the tributes themselves.

"This is very odd." The host turned to glance warily at the audience, his tone lowering. "Very, very odd indeed because you see, if my sources are correct, you were apparently collected after the reaping with... what was it – manacles on your wrists? That's a rather strange accessory for royalty, isn't it?"

A few titters of laughter from the audience. Loki's face remained serenely blank.

"Mind telling us how that came about? I bet there's an interesting story there." He held the microphone out for Loki, his head tilted coyly to the side. All at once the crowd hushed in wait for his response.

Loki wet his lips, gazing out into the dark rustling shadows of the audience. In the very midst of the stagelight's glare, he could barely make out more than a few rows of shapes, the rest only darkness. It did not matter though. He did not need to see them to know what they wanted. Stark's interview had revealed enough.

They wanted a sentiment, he realized. A story. The kind of courage and torment and love that would fondle the very fibre of their hearts, bring them reeling to a sense of frailty while they sat safely behind their velvet ropes. They wanted emotion without substance. It did not matter whether truth became an afterthought, or the figure just a fantasy. They wanted a gut-wrenching, soul-bleeding heartbreak.

And Loki knew just the story to give them.

Loki took a deep breath then, inhaling the thick, perfumed air. If he was going to play their game, he may as well play it best.

He turned back to the host, leaning in as if to share a secret between only the two of them. As if that colossally packed theatre had just become the most private, intimate space in the universe.

"My brother," he began quietly, calmly as he lowered his gaze. A carefully measured pause was made, before he looked up again. "He betrayed me."

A small gasp rose from the audience as the host's purple eyebrows skyrocketed. Cameras zoomed in with a whir. The man reeled forward, his voice lowering to match Loki's as he brought the mic to his own lips only briefly. "He betrayed you? How? Why?" The crowd went deathly silent.

Loki blinked. The lights felt hot on his skin and he suddenly wished his collar was not so high and rigid over his throat. The question hung like a verdict in the air.

_Why indeed._

Loki took another deep breath.

As he began to speak, Loki's face shifted carefully with his words, his expressions made subtle but poignant as they traced the edges of a deep hidden sorrow. Each word was given its own weight, slow and precise, as he began the oldest story he knew.

"As boys, we were very close. We spent every moment we could together. Growing up, sharing everything from our victories to our losses. We built a world of our own together." He let out a soft sigh then, as if recalling a particularly tender memory. "Unfortunately, we were also given the same promise – the one which would ultimately tear us apart," he paused again, his eyes growing distant. "That we were born to be kings."

There was a murmur through the crowd as the host let out a sceptical huff. Loki's eyebrows raised in turn.

"I see you can already imagine how such a promise would spurn discord."

"Discord? More like sibling pandemonium!" A few nervous laughs from the shadows.

Loki gave a weak smile. "There's been much anger, yes." He let his gaze drift again briefly before continuing. He kept his voice low and soft, weaving his words together like silk. "As fate would have it, my brother was the one chosen to be crowned King, and I to be his loyal subject. It was a fate I would have been glad to accept..." He brought his hands together in his lap. "If it weren't for what happened next."

Loki could see the question brimming on the other's face.  _What happened next?_

Of course, Loki obliged. He leaned in further.

"Just before his coronation, my brother's deep-seated hatred for the Jotuns wrought disastrous affects. He led a small but reckless attack against them, nearly causing a war and the end of our kingdom's long-lasting peace. Upon that, he was deemed unworthy of the throne, and so, the kingdom fell to me." He said this not with happiness, but an air of deep remorse. A prince thrown into the storm of duty.

"I ruled justly and honourably, as far as I could in such a meagre frame of time." He paused again to let his words settle, then resumed, his pace quickening. "But my brother would not stand for it. He turned on me, claiming the throne was his and his alone. We clashed on the bridge of our world, ready to deal the blows of death. We were no longer brothers then, but enemies fighting for an only child's birthright. Like a horrible dream," he observed, as if reliving it all. "I could... scarcely recognize him through the hatred." His voiced wavered then, as if threatening to shatter before the entire audience. He took a deep breath before continuing, his words once again steady.

"In the end, I was overthrown, cast into the darkness like a useless, dying star. Time seemed to slip away as I passed through the endless folds of the universe." He hesitated, allowing his audience to feel the infinite emptiness, let the world drown out around them as it had for him. "It was a very long and lonesome fall," he said solemnly.

The silence which followed was almost eerie. Incredible after the thundering ruckus of only minutes ago. It seemed no one wanted to break the illusion of the moment.

Loki resisted the urge to smile. They were like children, eager to listen, easy to beguile. Like clay in his hands, Loki knew the charm was working. Encouraged, he became even more dramatic in his telling.

"But I could not give up. Mustering the last of my will, I managed to return with an army, to face my brother again. I wished to bring peace back to the realms, no matter what the cost." He gave the host a fiercely determined look, his fists clenching as his back straightened to its full, regal height. "It was my duty as king," he proclaimed grandly.

And just then, in the glorious swathe of golden light, he really was a king, the lives and freedom of his subjects riding on his noble shoulders. His words were taking root in his stomach, bringing power to their meaning as he felt Gungnir in his grasp, the thrown beneath him, his brother standing loyal by his side.

But then the moment was gone, and he slid slowly back into his seat, his face wistful and somber.

"Regrettably, this too ended in failure. I was again defeated, this time condemned to a prison for my alleged sins, while through twisted depictions my brother claimed the praise of my people." Loki's eyes drifted again, his entire countenance weary. "He became the victorious hero, and I the traitorous villain."

Loki's words echoed throughout the theatre long after he'd finished speaking, letting their message settle over the audience. Heavy sighs wafted from the darkness then, and Loki knew without a doubt. He had them, and it almost felt too easy.

Loki bowed his head.

He knew this story far too well. So well, it was almost a fairytale by now. Told so many times, in so many ways. Mostly to himself. Occasionally to others. Parts of it often extracted or enhanced or manipulated, depending on his mood or who was listening. Sometimes it served a purpose, such as it did now, or when he'd appealed to Thanos for his army. Other times it seemed no more than a worn-down battle lyric, sung so many times it was almost dull to the ear. And yet, every retelling seemed to draw out some new mutation, a new fragment on how Loki had been wronged, how Thor had betrayed him, discarded him.

After so many different tellings, he wasn't quite sure which story was real anymore. Sometimes he really was the fallen prince of Asgard, other times he was not so sure.

He supposed it almost didn't matter any more. It did not change the present.

"That's... wow!" The host seemed to fumble with the mic then, as if waking from a trance and suddenly realizing it was his turn to talk. As he spoke, his voice seemed deeply moved. "That's an incredible past you have Loki. A King for but a moment, enduring great wars, a ruthless betrayal...the lies of your brother." His head shook sadly. He put a hand over his heart, giving Loki a grossly sympathetic look as he whispered into the mic.

"How tragic."

Loki only turned away, apparently too wrought with anguish to even respond.

All at once the audience cried out to him, so suddenly Loki's shock was quite genuine as the wall of noise crashed into him. Their shouts quickly jumbled into chaos but Loki could still catch snippets of their sentiments. They were imploring him not to grieve, saying that they understood. His pain was their pain, and they would not give up on him. They were with him now. He would suffer no more, so please,  _please_  don't give up!

After a moment, Loki kept his face turned away, and not just for their sake. He was no longer sure what he wanted to do more – laugh, or send them all burning to Hel. He bit his tongue to keep from cringing.

 _Idiots._  As if Loki would ever bare his true feelings to such worthless vermin. As if they could ever even hope to understand the workings of his soul. They were crying for a fairy tale. An illusion. He had lain a wounded hero in their arms, and they had lapped him up like a saucer of milk. All he had to do now was pour on the cream.

Gradually the host managed to bring the audience down to a low simmer.

"You were imprisoned," he continued, concern still slathered over his face. "You have no future to return to, no throne, no kingdom. And yet you still volunteered. Why is that?"

The crowd hushed again, and Loki brushed a finger over his chin, considering his answer. He only realized after that he was mimicking Stark's movement.

"When I volunteered," he began carefully, "it was not so much what I would gain..." His voice went quiet again, hesitant, as he cupped his hands together. "but who I would I lose."

"Who you would lose? You mean the people of your world?"

"Yes, but also someone more specific."

"Someone like– ?"

"Someone I care for very much."

The host was practically doubled over from leaning so far forward. Loki shied his eyes away, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

"I could not allow him to volunteer. In case he never returned. In case he... So of course, I took his place."

"Who? Who's place did you take?"

Loki looked up to the master of ceremony, his eyes brimming with a sea of unshed tears.

"My brother's."

And that did it. Gasps and shouting filled the room again, the audience hurling cries of dismay at the stage as they realized the true level of Loki's sacrifice, what his being here really meant. It took a long while before they settled down enough for the host to be heard again.

The man shook his head, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed. "Unbelievable," he breathed. "After everything he did, you still..." It seemed the man himself was now fighting off tears, his hand covering his face as he tried to steady himself. He brought his fists to his knees then, sucking in a sharp breath.

"I have no words," he told Loki, "except to say, that your courage and kindness will be a lesson to us all. There are few men like you, Loki."

"I've been told there will always be men like me," he replied modestly.

The host smiled again with those glimmering teeth. "None who have won our hearts so blindly."

Loki half-returned the smile. He could not agree more.

The host let the sentiment settle for only a moment longer before he stood, presenting the god as if he truly were a hero among them. "Loki Odinson!" He exclaimed grandly.

In a surge of movement the ranks of the audience stood as well, crying out their love for Loki, their adoration and support. The applause was like thunder as it greeted him, and Loki stood to receive it, allowing the noise to build and whirl around him. A conductor of fools he may be, but it made little difference in that moment. On that stage, in those lights, amidst the cacophony of cheers and love, he truly was a king. A god. The valiant hero of his tale. He was everything he'd ever dreamed of at once and all the suffering and humiliation he'd felt in the throws of reality seemed like some far distance memory, no longer a part of this world. Here, in this brief infinitesimal moment, he was the sun itself.

_And it felt damn good._

Loki bowed his head again, a soft smirk playing on his lips as he gazed out over his loyal subjects. It was almost impossible to tear himself away from the stage then, though he did eventually, and as he vanished through the curtain the praise and acclamation of his victory faded softly behind him.

He was still smirking unabashedly as he walked past the man of iron.

"That was the biggest load of horseshit I've ever heard," he glowered.

Loki shrugged, drifting like a cloud back to his seat. "They seemed to like it."

As he sat, hands cradled behind his head, still buzzing from the rush of noise and limelight, Sif levelled him with a murderous glare.

He immediately looked away.

Something told him, despite his incredible success, she would not be congratulating him tonight.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a long time since I updated this... but I'm taking another stab it at it. Or maybe it's taking another stab at me. We shall see.


	9. Three's Company

  
  


  
  


Loki was still basking in the afterglow of his performance by the time they made it to the apartment. His thoughts wandered serenely, barely registering the winding walk through the plaza as the other two lead the way before him. He should have paid closer attention to his surroundings, given his prisoner situation, but it hardly seemed to matter just then. He felt, as Thor might say, drunk with triumph. Even Echo's ceaseless chattering did nothing to dampen his mood. Though granted he was barely listening at this point.

After the last hour, his entire climate had changed. He felt powerful, untouchable, more heightened than he'd felt since... well, since a very long while, and he wasn't about to let that feeling slip away so soon.

As the elevator rose, applause continued to ring wildly in his ears, a thousand colliding hands dancing in his minds eye. And, perhaps best of all, the downright trodden look on Anthony Stark's prim-shaven face.  _That_  memory would be kept in a very special place.

As he played it over and over in his head, the whole scene put something warm and satisfying in the pit of Loki's stomach, making his feet feel just a smidgen lighter.

Even the Capitol seemed more beautiful tonight, its trillions of sparkling city lights peppering the darkened landscape before him. The sun was completely muted now, though not extinguished. Loki could still make out its fiery surface through a musky black veil in the sky, and he wondered vaguely how such a thing were possible. There was little that made sense when it came to this ship, or these people for that matter, and it usually irritated Loki to be so ignorant about such things. But for now it seemed almost alluring in its mystery. Exotic, even.

“Is that clear?”

Loki blinked, only just noticing the woman looking up at him, her eyebrows high and expectant.

“What?”

Echo rolled her eyes, heaving an impressive sigh for such tiny lungs. The elevator was now open to their floor and Sif had already left them, heading off towards the kitchens.

“I  _said_ ,” she repeated, impatient. “I want you to sleep early tonight. Tomorrow's banquet will be equally taxing, and just, if not more, crucial for gaining sponsors. Anyone who's anyone is going to be there, and believe me, you'll want to impress the best of them.” She gave him a sharp look, scanning him over in a way Loki had grown well used to by now. As always, she found something. “Those dark circles,” she pointed below his eyes. “Give the makeup team a break. Get some rest.”

He gave no confirmation beyond a stiff silence and, assuming she was done, began to leave the lift.

“And Loki...”

He paused.

“Well done tonight.”

He did not turn to watch her leave, only waited for the elevator's soft whir-click to indicate she was gone. He lingered where he stood, feeling very sober suddenly.

Rather than enhancing his happy mood, the praise bit like a pinprick, leaving something slight and unsettling under his skin. He huffed and shook it off, because truly, anything that woman said or did was nauseating to some degree.

And yet, he had a very sudden, childish urge not to sleep at all. Though granted, that would just be petulant and pointless, and would only really serve in making him dull-witted the next day. And she was right. He would need all his wits alert and present for tomorrow. Though not for the reason Echo might think.

Loki looked about the apartment he and Sif now shared, taking a seat on the lounge chaise on 'his side' of the room.

It was a strange kind of sharing, if you could even call it that. More like strangled cohabitation. It seemed the aesthetic surroundings of their two lives had been roughly snatched and shoved together, crumbling into each other where they mashed haphazardly in the middle. It was not a happy jointure, but rather a turbulent mess of greens and reds, golds and oak woods, book shelves fighting for space over training equipment, writing tables knocked into hanging crest shields.

And yet it wasn't...  _terrible_  he supposed. Their differences almost seemed, if not to complement, at least distinguish each other.

On his right, Sif's side of the common room was rather plain and practical, but warmly inviting. Only a touch of decoration covered the walls, and most of it was testament to Sif's exploits in battle. A trophy here, a worn-down sharpening stone there, a portrait of Thor and the warrior's three standing proud together, battle worn and fierce, Loki himself somehow excluded.

On the other side, Loki's area was darker lit, but far more ornate. Embellished with masterfully crafted tapestries, heavy drapes of emerald green and gold, and a plethora of royal accoutrements, the half-room held a high, princely air. And yet, the space still held the stuffy musk of parchment and ink, strange smokes and pungent powders from distant realms. These possessions were stored in all manner of jars and boxes, drawers and pouches, only visible between the mountains of books lining every surface and crevice.

The room was a portion of his personal study. The one he would retreat to when he wanted to read, or study a new kind of spell work, or simply to escape the blaring glare of life for a few precious moments. Quills and paper still littered his desk, same as they were, as if he'd never left at all.

It was his haven, the private sanctuary of his thoughts.

And somehow the Capitol had known this, and taken it.

He wondered if there was now a great yawning hole in the castle where this room once resided. How much damage its absence had left. If anyone cared. Glaring as the hole might be, it would certainly not be the kingdom's highest priority at the moment.

Loki stood then. He still had too much energy from the interview to sit still. Rolling his neck and shoulders, Loki strolled through the familiar setting, raising a hand to greet his books, letting his fingers brush along their leathery spines, the sinuous imprints of their titles. He paused over a particularly worn one – one he had read many, many times but always seemed to gleam new wisdom from. The book was originally from Vanaheim, describing very ancient Vanir magic. A gift from Frigga many years ago.

Taking the book from its lodgings, he let the cover slide open in his hands.

And saw nothing.

The page was blank. White. Empty from top to bottom. And so, he found, was the page after and the page after that. Loki's brow furrowed as he let it drop to the ground, reaching for another and snapping it open. Again, there was nothing there. He grabbed another and another, tossing them to the ground, his temper rising with every page until a messy pile lay sprawled at his feet. His breathing came sharp through his teeth.

_What happened? What did they do to his books? Where in Hel's name were their words!_

He nearly tore the last one down the middle.

_How_  could these idiots transport his entire study, all his books and parchments, and not bother to bring the damn words with them? What was a book without its contents? Its lessons and stories, its voices and teachings? What more could it possibly be than a pretentious, depthless facade of a –

Loki froze.

_Of course,_ he realized.

Because it  _is_  a facade.

Loki shuffled back, his mind running furiously.

_All of it._

Nothing here was real. Not the books or the tapestries, the parades or the tin-drum glory. It was all a show – a shimmering veil of resplendence meant to delight the senses. Make him believe the tides were on his side, that greatness was in reach.

But it was a lie.

And he  _knew it!_ He knew the interviews were nothing but hot air and glamour and yet  _still_  he fell for it, head over heels, pride over sense. For the cheers and adoration, the fanatic love and applause. It was like honey, too sweet to resist and too golden to pass up.

And he'd  _wanted_  it.

_Gods,_  how he'd wanted it. To feel the spotlight on his skin, the roaring, adamant cries that reared up just for him  _–only him!_ To have but a tiny semblance of what Thor must feel  _every damned day of his life._

And yet none of it had been real.

_They're my enemies,_  he remembered suddenly.  _Not my damned subjects._

Loki cursed at the ceiling.  _How could he be so stupid? So gullible?_ He must have been mad to think a little attention actually elevated him from any other fool on that stage. Sponsors or not. He felt like the snake in a busker's basket, charmed into dancing with no more than a little music and praise.

_Loki,_  the great fallen prince.  _Loki_ , the hero of the Gods.  _Loki_ , your latest, live entertainment.

And oh, how he danced.

A cold fury came crashing up over him then, making his hands shake as he stared into the empty white pages.

There was something soulless about this place, something wretchedly false, and only now was Loki truly beginning to see it.

No more. He would not let his guard down again. He would not be sucked into their games. No matter what it took, he swore he would make them pay for what they'd done, and if it wasn't personal before, it sure as hell –

“Was quite the show you put on tonight.”

Loki startled, the voice sounding right behind him. He swivelled to find Sif sprawled out across the chaise, still wearing the red dress from her interview, though her hair was now unbound, tousled curls draped leisurely down her shoulders. She was gazing elsewhere though, thoughtful as she swirled a drink in her hand. Wine perhaps, judging by the goblet.

“Poor little prince,” she cooed, her voice strangely silky. “Fighting for his kingdom, despised and locked away by his own family.” Her head lolled lazily to the side as her gaze lined up with his.

“How tragic,” she drawled.

Loki eyed her suspiciously. She had just transgressed the invisible, 'absolutely no-crossing-on-pain-of-death' line between their two 'sides'. The one she herself had erected on the first day. Apparently it was a one-way picket fence tonight though. He wondered how long she'd been lying there, watching his little outburst for. Or how she'd managed to sneak up on him for that matter.

Sif smirked when he didn't answer, though it quickly melted into something much less jovial.

“You just love to play the victim, don't you?” she asked suddenly.

Loki huffed, making to speak but she cut him off.

“–You think the world revolves around you and your self-righteous suffering,” she continued, propping herself up on one elbow. “And yet you have no idea how much suffering you constantly inflict on others.”

Slowly, he replied. “I have some idea...” He had a suspicion on where this was going.

She barked a laugh at that, though her eyes remained cold, unsmiling. She paused for moment, as if considering whether to continue or not, whether whatever she had to say was worth breaking the usual frigid silence between them. So far, it seemed to be the only thing keeping her from outright violence when Echo wasn't around, though it made the apartment almost unbreathable with tension. Loki had subscribed to it too, holding his tongue, finding there was no sense in goading the lion you shared a cage with. And yet now she was not even trying to hold back. Her voice sounded calm, but her muscles were taught, ready to lunge. After years of holding his own silence, Loki knew a breaking point when he saw one.

She took a long swig from her cup then, swallowing until the contents were empty. She tossed it to the side and sat up in a flurry of red, slamming her feet to the floor with a loud thud. When she spoke again, there was no more toying in her speech.

“ _Everything,”_  she grit through clenched teeth, “Everything you said about Thor's betrayal, the envy and lies... that was  _you_ Loki,” she pointed. “ _You_  were the liar,  _you_  betrayed his trust. Not the other way around.” Her eyes glinted something dangerous as she growled on. “Do you honestly believe you can just twist the truth around until you're the one playing the hero? Are you really  _that_  delusional?”

Loki didn't answer. He barely noticed the book still cradled in his hand until his fingers were digging painfully into leather, to which he quickly tossed it to the floor, it's blank pages blooming at his feet.

He leered for long moments at the woman, his chest tightening with the silence, threatening to unleash more than just words.

But then, like a cord snapping he sighed, throwing his hands up in defeat.

“You got me!” he grinned, all glinting teeth. “Was it that obvious? Too many crocodile tears?” He exhausted another long sigh, as he leaned back into the bookshelf, folding his arms over his chest. “It's true, I don't play a very convincing hero, do I?” He appeared to wallow for a moment, before giving her a high brow smirk. “Perhaps I should have asked an expert first.”

Sif's eyes narrowed.

“I mean, you certainly have a much keener sense of justice than I do,” he continued brightly, well aware of the waters he was wading into. “At least I have to imagine so, given that you once not only  _denied_  my orders as king, but even went so far as to conspire against me,” he paused, tapping a thoughtful finger to his chin. “Now tell me if I'm wrong, but that's sort of... treason, isn't it?”

She was on her feet in an instant. “You were never meant to be king!” she snarled. “Thor was, and you took that from him by lying and manipulating everyone around you! We merely returned order to the chaos  _you_  wrought!”

Loki raised his hands again, placating. “Of course,” he conceded easily, “I should have realized. How very noble of you to right my wrongs.” He began wandering again, kicking books from his path as he paced along the expanse of shelves. “But let's not pretend like it wasn't the perfect excuse, shall we? The one you all waited  _so_  eagerly for.”

She scoffed. “Excuse for  _what?_ ”

Loki's grin widened. “To be rid of me, of course.” He cupped his hands behind his back, feeling Sif's eyes following him as he walked. She gave no answer and so Loki chuckled lightly.

“What, you think I didn't notice? The shifty looks, the way you whispered like gossipy maids amongst the others? Hoping I would stay behind each time we set out, claiming I was more a hindrance than help anyway.” He turned to pace back the other way. “Even before I revealed my true intent, you would have loved to cast me out, wouldn't you? To be rid of me once and for all.”

Again she said nothing and so Loki continued, words tumbling off his tongue without reign as they gained speed and ferocity, incensed by her silence.

“Or perhaps I flatter myself. Perhaps you never even wasted so much sentiment on me. I was nothing but an afterthought to you, was I? The little shadow stumbling behind as you all strode forward, the perfect warriors of Asgard, all noble and brute,” he laughed bitterly, his fingers curling. “Beside such blinding radiance, who would even notice I was there?”

“Thor did.”

Loki halted in his tracks, his eyes wandering on their own accord to Sif's portrait, where his brother beamed back at him, chest-swelled and blissfully unaware of the conversation taking place around him. Loki blinked back, almost losing full track of his thoughts.

_Thor._

He soon recovered with another laugh, though it snagged halfway from his throat.

“Thor was the worst of all,” he whispered bitterly, turning his back on both Sif and the portrait. “Thor never saw anything. He was too busy gallivanting around with all of you. Being everyone's golden boy. Oh sure, he worried incessantly about his future duties, the high expectations... but at least he  _had_ them!” Loki spat, no longer caring about keeping face in front of Sif. “Meanwhile no one expected  _anything_  of _me_. I was the one left cleaning up the mess while Thor basked in the adoration of anyone that laid eyes upon him! He could do anything, go anywhere and have the whole room suckling at his feet!  _How could he possibly notice the hands he stepped on to get there? What did he care about the wreckage left behind?_ ”

He was panting now, teeth clenched painfully in his jaw as Thor's face burned in his mind. Even without the painting, he could see him, plain as the sun. His brother running far ahead through the wheat fields, his brother, surrounded by friends and subjects as he boasted grand heroics in the mead hall, his brother, grinning and laughing at his own coronation, ready to ascend the heights of his father and forefathers, to accept his rightful place among the great and the worshipped. To be revered beyond all others.

_To be king._

“You know nothing about your brother, do you?”

The image froze in Loki's mind.

Slowly, he turned to look upon Sif, his face twisted in a hard grimace. Her own was oddly blank.

For a moment she seemed almost uncertain, but then, as if coming to a decision, Sif moved closer, her bare footsteps slow and deliberate as she closed the distance between them. A final step, almost weightless, brought her eye to eye with Loki, breath to breath as she tilted her chin high, her eyes full of something indiscernible.

Loki blinked, his anger edging immediately to caution as he watched her curiously, though not trustingly. The sudden proximity of her face sent his pulse racing again, though not quite how it had a moment ago. His skin prickled in response to her own, his eyes wandering furtively where his hands dared not to. It seemed all his thoughts had deserted him then, turned a corner and lost somewhere in their haste, her body far too close, too warm, too everything for him to remember where they'd been going.

And then she did something quite unusual. She put a hand to his face. Not roughly, only lightly cupping the side of his cheek, her long fingers wandering to the edge of his hair, brushing a few strands behind the shell of his ear. He jerked slightly at the touch, but soon stilled, unsure whether to pull away or remain where he stood. Her hand was warmer than expected.

When she spoke again, Sif's voice was surprisingly gentle, almost soothing in a way he rarely heard her speak, and if that, never towards him. It was eerie, like witnessing an entirely different person.

Loki watched her suspiciously. She was up to something. Trying to unnerve him, get under his skin. He was sure of it.

But he didn't pull away.

“You miss so much, Loki,” she began slowly, almost sadly. “You think just because someone is strong and beautiful and loved, that they are not suffering? That they're not in pain?” Her head shook, almost imperceptibly. “If only you could hear what he was feeling... the loneliness, the confusion. The way he wanders, always only halfway here... or there.”

Loki said nothing, his features rigid as a statue, pulse hammering hard in his chest.

Sif sighed. “He looks strong, doesn't he? But he's not. He's breaking. And you, more than anyone else, should know that that.” She said this, not accusingly, just simply. “You should have heard the things he said when he thought you dead, Loki. How he fell away from everything.”

Loki stared.

There was a moment then. So brief it was almost nothing. But Loki saw it.

It was something in the way her eyes softened, her breath slowed on the verge of a sigh. How she hesitated.

But that couldn't be right. Sif  _never_  hesitated. Not the Sif  _he_ knew. The Sif who slung scathing insults faster than anyone, Sif who brought frost giants thrice her size bloody and bawling to their knees, Sif who could best the challenge of any man, whether with blade or wit or endurance.

Loki watched her wordlessly, transfixed by the sudden change. She looked almost –  _frail,_  he realized.

For that brief unguarded moment, Sif was not a cold brazen warrior of the Aesir, but something else. It were as if all the walls and thorns and clouds of her body had parted at once, allowing a small glimpse into something more privately intimate than anything he'd seen before.

It was beautiful. Delicate.

And he  _wanted_  it.

With a sudden, violent urge he longed to rip the surface back, claw it open and hold it raw and writhing under his tongue. How would it taste, he wondered. How would it smell or feel against his own skin? Would it hold up against him, or would the edges melt away, if he crushed it with his own? Would it meld? Or suffocate? It was mouthwatering, the thought of dragging whatever it was that made Sif look this delicious out screaming into the open.

His insides were dying to find out, and his head bowed so minutely closer.

But then the moment vanished, and like a moth her gaze shied away, drawn to that damned, infernal portrait.

Loki watched as her eyes softened again, subtle but there, always for Thor and never for him. Her mouth parted once, then closed, wordless but full.

Everything sank in that silence, and Loki felt the familiar sweep of disappointment return.

When her focus returned to Loki, the walls were back, the thorns erect. A lingering warmth remained but a new current drew it elsewhere, far away from him and this room. Always locked just out of reach.

She took a small step back then, removing her hand and taking the faint traces of warmth with it.

“Thor has always loved you,” she told him, stoic as ever. “Even if you refuse to see it.”

Loki barely heard the words she was saying.

His body felt heavier than marble, his thoughts drifting barren in his head, finding no footing or substance.

_Sif_.

_Thor._

His chest lurched and he found himself staring wildly at the ground, a surge of noise and heat filling his ears and throat.

_Thor._

_Always Thor._

He was choking. On Thor's voice, Thor's laugh, Thor's sigh, filling everything, spilling everywhere until Loki's head rang with the sheer clamour of it, the overwhelming, unrelenting presence of  _him_. He wanted to tear him out, let the noise gush from gashes in his head, flood to the floor and out of his thoughts forever.  _Damn him! Damn him to Hel!_  Why did Thor have to come into everything he did? Everything he ever wanted? No matter how far he ran, Thor would always be tethering him back. Tying him down to fail.

And now, even  _here_...

Even with her.

Loki took a shuddering breath, and after a moment gulped down the wave of tremors, steadying himself. The noise gradually quieted as he raised his head, his eyes murderous.

“I have seen plenty,” he whispered through grit teeth, the words chafing in his throat. He took another even breath, the pain in his chest still throbbing. “What he shows is not love, but  _guilt_. Guilt that he will never bring right to his mistakes. That he will never fix the damage he's done.  _That I will NEVER forgive him for it!_ ”

Sif's face clouded then, her softness gone entirely.

“No,” she growled back, her fists clenching. “You don't see  _anything!_  You're so busy griping and moaning over your own tragedies that you don't even see how hard Thor has tried to help you! When he tried to stop the fighting and bring you home, you spat in his face! He gave you chance after chance and you never even gave him  _one._  He saw past your ugliness long after we'd recognized it. Even when we knew you were too far gone,  _he stayed with you_. He gave you everything, and in return you gave him  _nothing!_ ”

Loki reeled. “I gave him  _everything!_  All my support! My attention and guidance!” he bellowed. “ _He's_  the one who took without giving! Why should I worship a tree without yield? Why should I whither under his branches while he takes all the light for himself?”

“ _Augh!_  Why must you  _always_  point blame elsewhere? Why can't you  _ever_  see your own fault?”

“Because fault is all _anyone_ sees in _me! No matter what I do, I'm always the one to blame!”_

“Because you _ARE_  the one to blame!” She roared.

“ _Of course I am!”_ He yelled, _“_ I'm the son of a _Jotun_ aren't I! _”_

Sif balked, leaving a sudden crash of silence between them.

“Oh,  _no_...” Sif's eyes flared, her finger raised and shaking. “No, no, by the _Norns_  you do  _not_  get off that easy! You think your little blue bloodline gives you the right to act like some great, evil prick? That all your scheming and murders are just some inevitable symptom of your– your  _heritage_?” she gaped, incredulous. “Don't make me wretch! When you brought war upon Midgard and betrayed your brother, when you killed your king in cold blood, your own  _father –_ you did that on your own, Loki. That was all you. And no amount of crying behind some monster fairytale is going to change that!”

Loki was trembling now, his eyes wide and lethal. His hands itched to lunge at her, to choke her down, flay her open.  _Anything._

Sif looked downright disgusted, like she were about to spit on him.

“You act like you never had a choice,” she said quietly, her voice shaking. “Like hatred was your only option. Well maybe it was. But to me that just sounds pathetic.” She unfisted her hand then, her shoulders easing. There was no sign of warmth now, obscured by endless bricks and boulders, barbs and poison-tipped arrows. She was untouchable.

They watched each other for a long while, both motionless, unyielding to the other. It felt as though a cord had been strung between them, hard and taught.

Eventually, finally, it was Sif who broke the silence.

“You should die for real this time,” she said quietly. “Then maybe Thor could finally move on with his life.”

Loki uncoiled as well, his eyes lidding low. “You would like that, wouldn't you.”

“I would,” she agreed. “Thor deserves better than you.”

Loki stared, blankly at first, but then like a twitch, a smirk curled up the side of his lip, followed by a low chuckle, until finally he was laughing, loud and manic, his hand clutched to his chest as he heaved hard and horribly. It was all so amusing, somehow. So wretchedly familiar.

After a while, his laughter abated, his chest throbbing from the effort. Sif watched him warily.

“You might be right,” he grinned, still chuckling slightly. “I am a terrible brother, after all.”

This time it was he who closed the distance, stepping up to Sif so their chests were only inches apart, their faces even less. He was no longer smiling.

“I wonder though, what  _does_  Thor truly deserve? Forgiveness? Love? Someone to finally ease the pain?” He leaned in further, so their cheeks nearly brushed, his lips hovering just over her ear. “A hero that needs saving,” he whispered, noting how she twitched under his breath, “now  _that's_  an irony.”

Sif remained silent, returning nothing but a steely gaze outwards. Loki continued, relishing the smell of her, the slight curve of her neck, the soft pulse beneath it. He took it all in now, undaunted.

“But then, that puts you in a rather favourable position, doesn't it?” he smiled again, leaning his face downwards, skimming his breath along her neck, not touching, only testing the waters. His voice remained a low rumble as he wandered cautiously, careful not to overstep. “What with you here, fighting for Asgard – for  _him_. What better way to win the affection of your king than risking your life to vanquish his enemies? It is a noble pursuit, I admit, and it would certainly  _ease –_ ” he took a deep breath in then, his eyelids limping with the splendour of it, her body scent, still there under all the musky perfumes and soaps of the Capitol, “ – _a great deal of pain,_ ” he finished. “Not to mention the honour you would receive.”

He heard a growl from the base of Sif's throat, but the sound only enticed him more, bristling the heat now unravelling deep within his core.

“Think of all those handsome warriors,” he sighed, running a light hand along the waist of Sif's dress, the fabric smooth and warm under his fingers, “flocking to your feet upon your victorious return. Lady Sif, the mighty lioness of Asgard. The saviour of the gods.” He rose his mouth again, following the slope until his lips were once again hovering, trailing the rim of her ear. “It would be enough to make any man crave you,” he growled, letting his nose brush the soft skin.

He bit down softly.

“Too bad Thor only ruts with humans.”

A hand slammed into his chest then, knocking his breath and sending him stumbling a few steps back. She raised her fist, ready to strike again when Loki snatched it midair, restraining it between them.

Sif glowered furiously back at him.

“ _Hold your tongue!”_  she warned.

Loki laughed again, his fingers digging roughly into her wrist. Then his eyes turned venomous. “Oh, it stings, doesn't it? That after all these years, after all you've done for him, he still swoons for another. And it took what? A few days? A couple romps in a Midgardian camper? Who knew the way to his heart was something so simple. And you never even had it to begin with.”

Sif snarled. “You know  _nothing_  of Thor's heart!” She made to swing with her other fist but Loki dodged it, using her momentum to slam their chests together, twisting her arm behind her back so they both stood rigid and pressed tight.

He smiled down at her, gloating over the feel of her body pinned against his.

“Again, I think you're right Sif. Though I dare say I've caught the gist of it,” he mused, enjoying the feel of her pulse racing under his fingers. “You think I didn't see him in mourning? I saw  _plenty_  under the guise of the All-father. I saw him turn away from you, even when you offered to help bear the burden of his misery. He did not run into your arms, though they were always open, weren't they? Not once did he mend his wounds by your hearthside. Or your  _bedside_ , for that matter.” He chuckled, leaning down to her ear again. “You may be a loyal friend and a fine warrior in battle Sif, but he will  _never_  look at you the way you look at him. No matter how hard you try, you will always be on the outside looking in. You will  _always be_ wanting. And Thor will  _never_  – “

And that's when Sif slammed him into the bookshelf, her lips smashing into his as he stumbled back over empty novels, straining to keep his balance against the hard spines, more books toppling to the floor around them. It took Loki's hands only seconds to weave their way around Sif's waist, into her hair, down her neck, yanking thin straps down her shoulders.

She kissed him hard, crushing his mouth with such ferocity that Loki had to fight for any semblance of control. The expanse of her lips far exceeded his own, swallowing and smothering his with each crushing lunge until he managed to bite one still, dragging his teeth along the wet, spongy flesh.

He wanted to pull out for a proper breath, get his wind and senses back for a moment, but Sif wouldn't allow it. Her mouth was relentless, greedy.

And he hardly felt like arguing.

They kissed all the way to the bedroom, yanking at eachother's clothes, knocking more delicate sounding things off their lodgings. He heard a rip somewhere below and there was a very small part of Loki's brain, still functioning, which noted that Sif had been right – the dress really wasn't that sturdy after all.

She allowed them to finally part while Loki pulled what little of the dress remained up and over her head, exposing her generous breasts, thick and lusciously full.

Sif set to work on Loki's vest as he preoccupied himself with her neck, dragging his teeth along the skin and biting whenever he felt like it. He could barely wait until his tunic was off to close the gap between them, pressing their bodies together, the heat of her chest against his own making the coil in his stomach grow tighter and hungrier. The rest of their clothes were gone in seconds.

Grabbing her roughly by the waist, he began guiding her back towards the bed. He was about to thrust her down when a foot suddenly hooked up and around his leg, throwing him off balance and sending him falling down first. His back hit the plush green quilt just before Sif came crashing down on top of him, her body instantly set on pushing and grinding him deep into the fabric.

_Too much. Too fast._

His head was already spinning from the pressure building between his legs. He bucked in response, snaring and trapping her thigh between his own.

_Not yet,_ he growled inwardly. He would not let her set the pace just yet.

He reached up and pulled her down into another kiss, wet and frantic as he searched her mouth with his tongue, lashing and tasting every last crevice. She returned the search wholeheartedly, a moan building deep in her throat. Loki busied his other hand with the rest of her, dipping his fingers down her spine, then up and over her rear. He cupped it once roughly, then began to knead and massage the plump flesh with his palm. This earned him another moan as Sif broke the kiss, breathing hard into his neck.

Loki gulped for air, now his mouth was free, feeling full and electric under her weight. She strained to move her hips, and so he released them slightly, letting her roll up and down his body like a wave. There was no hesitation in her movement. Sif was a master with her body and every gyration was perfectly balanced – to perfect affect. Every arch and dip of her pelvis, then her stomach, then her breasts as they plunged and lifted left little spasms racing along Loki's skin, making his body cry out for more. More of it. More of her.

Not to mention her hands. Her hands that were –  _oh..._

– Finding what they wanted as Loki felt them slither between his legs, deep and clever with every stroke. Her perfectly warm hands sent little shocks of pleasure boiling up and down his abdomen as he moved with her in time. A well placed stroke sent Loki's head arching back, his mouth forming an O as his fingers dug hard into the sheets. It took everything just to hold himself back.

_Not yet. He would not go just yet._

She seemed to sense his stubbornness, as she scoffed, almost irritated. Her hand withdrew suddenly and Loki was left breathing heavily, bewildered by its cold absence. But then he felt her body lift up and glide slowly downwards, her nails dragging along his chest in a way that hurt wonderfully.

Loki swallowed. The moist warmth of her breath hovered just over his naval, sending quick shivers down his spine.

_Gods._ He gasped out,all but writhing under her breath. _Just be on with it._

She lingered for a moment more, dropping small kisses along his pelvic bone, a bite or a lick where she deemed wanting. Her tongue roved steadily downwards, predictably towards his firm and waiting arousal. But then, like a coy fish her mouth darted off to the side, down the inner slope of his thigh.

Loki cursed into the sheets. The longer she toyed around, the more furious his body grew. If she didn't touch him soon...

Sif's tongue returned as more kisses circled his groin, edging in and around, making Loki's leg bend at the knee, his toes curling. After what seemed an eternity _,_  her breath landed where he wanted it most, and his blood screamed so loud he could barely stand it. She was so close, so warm, so perfect. All he needed was her mouth to...

And that's when she pulled away.

Loki all but choked.

He blinked furiously as she drew herself up to sit straddled on his chest, her arms folded over her chest. Loki struggled to reel his head back in, His thoughts dazed and sluggish by all the blood occupied elsewhere. It took a few moments before he was able focus fully on Sif, who now loomed over him.

She was entirely still, her expression calculating as she watched him with blank, heavy eyes. Though still blushing wildly from their onslaught with Loki's, her lips were turned stiffly down at the edges, disapproving. The look reminded him way too much of Echo.

“Do it,” said her lips.

Loki froze.

A void of seconds trickled by.

Neither of them moved and he felt the knot tightening hard in his chest. He fought the urge to reach up to her.

“Sif...”

Her hips jerked suddenly, the movement grinding her ass full against his cock.

“I  _said_ ,” she repeated calmly,

“ _Do it._ ”

Loki lay very still, his body pinned down firmly under her weight, his eyes locked with hers.

He tried desperately to focus on her words, what they meant, how they sat like an unsigned contract between their naked bodies –

How much they would hurt later.

But none of that seemed to matter now. Not really. Not when he had no less than a celestial goddess towering over him – the musky, sweet smell of perfume and sweat rolling off her skin. The way her breasts dipped and hung like perfect dew drops, waiting to be licked up off her chest. Battle scars littered her skin like scattered wisps of lightning, and he wanted nothing more than to taste them over and over again, feel the rough and jagged lines melt under his lips. Let their patterns cave into his mouth.

_Gods,_  he wanted to unmake her.

He wanted her to feel how it felt to be nothing and everything at once, the way he had with the infinity stone. To be taken and ruptured from the inside out, unravelled and returned as something else. Something both more and less.

If he could just make her feel...  _something_ like what he felt – maybe she would understand. If he could just peel her skin away, unleash what was down there, under the rough and the layers, the temple of armour. To inspect it with his mouth, taste the gush of blood and tissue, the soft and the fluid. Take away the edges. Let them meld into each other. No more walls.

No more lines to cross.

Just them _._

_Just Sif._

Loki sighed, shutting his eyes against the world. It ached. Everything ached. But Sif's word was steadfast. Even before she spoke, he knew. There was no room for negotiating. It was this or nothing.

Grudgingly, he caved to the request.

From the depths of his centre, Loki called upon his magic, letting its green glow seep up and over his skin, down his arms and legs, across his chest and over his face, smothering him like a blanket. It was such an easy trick. And yet it was arguably one of his finest techniques. The surface was so real, so seamless it was nearly an art form by now.

He was done within moments.

Sif appraised his work with a shrewd eye. She took his body in her gaze, splayed it open and studied it as she tipped her head side to side, a finger pressed to her lips. Loki watched as she bent down over him, cradling his chin in her palm, brushing the fair, bristling hairs with her fingers.

Her brown eyes travelled up to search his now brightly blue ones, noting everything, looking for any holes or cracks that might betray the phantom face staring back at her. She ran her hand gingerly over his cheek, wiping a few blonde hairs behind his ear. Loki felt numb under the inspection.

Satisfied, she sat back and smiled.

He had done well.

Sif leaned down and with a new gentleness, sank her lips over his, letting them rest there for long moments. The warmth was so horrible it caught in Loki's throat, making his chest ache.

She pulled back, a hint of disappointment in her tone. “You've softened.”

Loki swallowed, staring wordlessly back at her. The expression must have seemed endearing with his new face, as she smiled and reassured him softly, “Don't worry, I'll take care of it.”

And with that she travelled once more down the length of his body, this time taking him right full into her warm, watering mouth. Her tongue, lapping and rolling down his cock felt like every kind of heaven, and within moments the hard notch in Loki's stomach began to ease and unravel, replaced by the hot, crackling hunger from before.

“There you go,” she said smiling, playfully licking the tip. He looked down to see her wearing a mischievous grin, her face nestled between his thighs, tousled hair cascading down over her shoulders like an image of perfect beauty.

And that was all it took.

In one sudden motion, Loki had her flipped and pinned beneath him, her thighs locked between his as he towered solidly over her, pinning her wrists over her head. She huffed, wriggling her hands playfully.

A growl rose deep in Loki's throat, threatening.

He took one last hungry look at her body, splayed out beneath him, before diving in for another kiss, possessive and deep, running his hand through her hair and down her neck, over her breasts and everywhere he could reach.

She arched up and Loki finally, deliciously slipped inside, feeling the moist walls of her cavern all around him, engulfing him entirely to the brim.

With a steady, rolling churn, they found a rhythm between their two bodies, moving together, burrowing and lifting, caving and swallowing. With each driving thrust of Loki's hips, she in turn rolled and rocked with her own, sending merciless spasm after spasm rushing through his body.

A moan escaped his lips as he burrowed his face in Sif's shoulder, her breath hot and heavy on his neck, the slick wet heat between their bodies already unbearable.

_Too much. Not enough. More._

His neck arched with the building motion, hands digging hard into her wrists.

He brought his lips down over her cheek as their bodies continued to sway, his voice a low rumble in her ear.

“ _Mine,_ ” he growled.

She bucked her hips in response, gasping into the air. She turned to face him, taking his mouth into another crushing kiss. They parted, her taste lingering wet on his palette, the burning in her eyes unworldly.

“ _Mine,”_ she whispered back.

It was enough to send him right over the edge, and in a flurry of noise and heat and smashing skin he reached the top, gasping into her neck as pleasure brimmed and burst out over his body, dragging his senses away and leaving him with nothing but the white hot serenity of everything and nothingness at once.

With his final thrusts, Sif let out a breathtaking moan, and they collapsed hard into each other, panting heavily, still sizzling in their own rightful highs.

Everything hazed then.

His body, consumed by pure weightless calm, seemed to disappear, and Loki wanted nothing more than to sink further into that feeling, let himself drift away and never return.

And for a moment, he almost did.

But then like a snag, the slight twitch of Sif's wrist under his fingers bringing everything crashing back – the apartment, the Games, his brother, the cruel ticking of the clock which told him he had not followed Echo's orders for an early night.

All of it was real.

He felt a sharp, ugly ache return as his senses caught up to him.

Sif did not speak when she began to move again. She merely dragged herself out from under Loki's weight, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. He watched her naked back, still glistening in sweat, with tired eyes.

When she turned to face him, he could tell by her expression that the illusion had faded, as it often did when he reached his climax. She did not look angry, only tired. Very tired.

Standing and heading for the door, Sif seemed intent to leave it at that. Quietly, as she often did.

This time however, she paused briefly in the doorway, her eyes remaining forward.

“I am glad it was you who volunteered,” she said gently, her voice sounding very distant. “Because now, when I am forced to kill you,” her eyes met briefly with his, the walls of her body returned.

“I will feel no loss.”

She turned away and Loki watched her form disappear through the doorway of his room, as if she'd never been there at all.

  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((I promise, this is eventually a Tony/Loki fic... eventually


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